


Sight Unseen

by gaelicspirit



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brotherhood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Issues, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Phobias, Team as Family, Totally made up names of bioweapons, temporary disability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-25 20:18:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 49,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16204913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaelicspirit/pseuds/gaelicspirit
Summary: Set post S2, pre S3. Jack may have accepted Mac walking away from the Phoenix, but protecting Mac was for life. Especially when the odds stacked against him include a dangerous chemical agent, a couple of rogue scientists, and a few nefarious mercenaries. Jack will stop at nothing to keep Mac safe, even it means crawling through Roman catacombs, wounded, with a blind partner.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer/Warning** : Nothing you recognize is mine. Including the odd movie line. I like to work in quotes now and again. And…the characters swear a bit more in my hands than they do on the show. Also, medical inaccuracies abound. I did research, but…then I fictioned. So, don’t try any of the medical procedures in this story at home, kids.  
> Plus, everything related to Rome is thanks to armchair traveling. I haven’t actually been there. Yet. So if you’re a native, or have visited often, please try to overlook historical and geographical inaccuracies. It’s all for love of the story.
> 
> I had intended to post this prior to the S3 premier, but, well… _life_. You know how it is. I technically finished it before the premiere, but thought ya’ll might appreciate a sanity check. Anyway, this was always going to be AU from the end of S2 since I don’t write the show—but I hope you’ll be able to overlook the differences (and in some places, the similarities as I was Lenkov’d a few times by the premiere) and enjoy the read. 
> 
> Finally, fair warning: I write long chapters. If you choose to read, get comfy. 
> 
> Big thanks to my friend and confidant, **ThruTerrysEyes**. And thanks to **pandigirl** , who keeps me inspired.

_“The only thing worse than being blind is having sight, but no vision.”  
-_ Helen Keller

**

**4 weeks after MacGyver quit the Phoenix Foundation  
Nordkapp, Norway **

**2300**

**_-Bozer-_ **

“Get behind me! Get behind me!”

Jack’s voice was tight, demanding. Bozer didn’t hesitate.

Holding tightly to the small hand trembling within his grip, Bozer tore around the corner, tugging the little girl with him. He tucked up close behind Jack’s body, using the older man like a shield—as if Jack wouldn’t be ripped apart if he made one wrong move.

Bullets shredded the wall just shy of their position and Bozer closed his eyes, wincing at the spray of cement and mortar from the impact. The retort of the fire fight was so loud, Bozer’s ears hissed. The small body next to his instinctively pressed closer.

“Grab them, Boze,” Jack shouted over the melee of gunfire, nodding with a tight jerk of his neck toward the elderly couple crouched on the floor behind Bozer. “Get in that side room.”

“What about you?” Bozer shouted, his voice cracking.

“I’ll be right behind you.”

 _Famous last words_ , Bozer couldn’t help but think.

He didn’t have much of a choice; the Lithuanian diplomat and his wife were their responsibility until Matty sent in the exfil team. Gesturing to the couple, Bozer tugged on the little girl’s hand, ushering his three charges through a set of heavy, wooden doors into what appeared to be a large dining room set up for some sort of group dinner.

“Go across the room,” Bozer said, unconsciously raising his voice as though that would make his inability to speak their language suddenly unimportant. He loosened his hand from the little girl’s grip, waving toward the far corner of the room. “That way.”

The white-haired diplomat nodded his understanding and ushered his wife and granddaughter ahead of him. Bozer turned back to the door, ready to push it open and reach for Jack when the man in question burst into the room in a red-faced flurry of harsh gasps and chambered rounds. Jack pulled the door shut and shot a glance over his shoulder.

“Their next step will be to cut the pow—“ Jack broke off as the lights in the room went out, the only illumination coming from the long windows gracing the far wall. “Okay, grab one of those tables over there and make a barricade.”

“Barricade?” Bozer squeaked. “What is this, _Les Mis_? How’s that gonna help?”

Jack shot him a look and for a fleeting moment Bozer registered how worn down the man looked. “Bozer, just do it!”

Huffing, Bozer made his way over to the corner Jack had indicated and grabbed one of the long tables that had been set up in what looked like preparation for a large dinner at the manor. He pulled it over toward where the family was huddling, tipped it on its side and kicked the thick table cloth away. With a few quick shoves, he’d blocked the family in, the hefty table acting as protection.

Looking back toward the door, Bozer saw that Jack had used the corded draw-back ties from the thick curtains draped over the windows to tie the door shut and was pulling the other large table over to block the entrance. Impressed, Bozer bounced his head once.

“Nobody’s getting through that door,” he declared.

Jack shifted his rifle from his back to his hands once more and moved toward Bozer, eyes scanning the shadowed room.

“Doesn’t mean they can’t get in here,” Jack muttered, gaze flicking over the windows.

Despite being close to midnight it was wasn’t even twilight outside, the sun still high enough in the sky to illuminate the exterior of the estate grounds where they were dug in. Good for their rescue party, bad for hiding.

“They are bulletproof,” came an accented voice from the other side of the table.

Jack blinked, casting a startled look toward Bozer. “What was that?”

Bozer shook his head, eyebrows up. Jack made his way to where the diplomat sat with his arms around his wife, his nine-year-old granddaughter curled up in his lap. He looked up at Jack, blue eyes shockingly calm.

“The windows,” the diplomat told him. “They are bulletproof.”

“Good to know,” Jack nodded, shifting the barrel of his rifle up, resting the stock on his hip. “Might’ve mentioned you spoke English, though.”

The man shrugged. “You never asked.”

Jack’s eyebrows went up, matching Bozer’s expression. “Fair point.”

The noise from outside the heavy doors quieted. Bozer kept his eyes on Jack, looking for a cue as to what to do next. He was so far out of his element at the moment he felt like he was drowning.

Their instructions had been to go in, get the diplomat and his family, and get out. Bozer had been outfitted with a standard-issue Kevlar vest and a med kit. Jack, however, had arrived with enough guns on him he looked like the Terminator. It was almost as if he’d known that the Op was going to go south.

Bozer should have clued in then, but…he wasn’t a soldier. More importantly, he wasn’t _MacGyver_. And that put him at a distinct disadvantage.

“Look,” Jack sighed, slinging his rifle once more across his back.. “It’s going to get pretty cold in here soon. But at least it won’t be too dark.”

His voice was low, but his tone casual, and Bozer felt his shoulders relax slightly. There was something about Jack’s voice: even in the middle of chaos, it seemed to say _I got you._

“What about those guys?” Bozer asked, looking nervously over at the door before pinning his eyes once more on Jack.

Jack lifted a shoulder. “They wanted the documents; they thought this guy,” he jerked his thumb in the direction of the elderly diplomat, “was just icing on their cake.”

“So, wait…we’re going to just let them get the documents?” Bozer asked, confused.

Jack glanced down at the diplomat. “You want to tell him, or should I?”

“I am the only one to translate information,” the man—Bozer was drawing a blank on the diplomat’s name—replied.

“They’re encrypted. And by the time those d-bags figure it out,” Jack dropped a heavy hand on Bozer’s shoulder, “we’ll be kicking back with some brewskis in sunny L.A.”

“How long to wait?” The old man was calm, staring up at Jack with complete trust.

Jack twisted his arm slightly, looking at the watch face on the inside of his wrist. “No more than six hours, tops.”

“What can I do?” Bozer asked, finally feeling his quaking heart settle a bit.

Jack narrowed his eyes and looked around the room they’d barricaded themselves in. Other than the two tables they’d tipped over to use as blockades, there were wooden chairs strewn around the room and two broad banquet tables at the back, complete with waiting catering dishes set every few feet. Jack bent over and grabbed up the discarded table cloth from the mess of dishes and silverware that had fallen to the floor when Bozer dumped the table over to create the barricade.

“Grab all of these you can find,” Jack instructed. “We can use them for blankets.”

Bozer took the tablecloth from Jack, watching as the other man went to the banquet table at the far side of the room. Jack grabbed what looked like small canisters from beneath the metal tubs awaiting food, then turned back around. Tucking two wooden folding chairs under his arm, he made his way back over to the family.

“Boze!” Jack snapped, startling Bozer. “You okay?”

“Y-yeah,” Bozer stammered. “Yes, just…what are you doing?”

Jack dumped his loot on the inside of the table barricade. “Improvising.”

Bozer blinked, nodding as he scrambled to get the tablecloths—already able to see his breath in the swiftly chilling air. Hearing clattering across the room, he cast a glance back to where Jack was fetching one of the metal tubs from the banquet table before he hefted himself over the table edge.

“Does she speak English?” he heard Jack ask.

“She does not,” the man responded. “Only I do.”

Bozer climbed to the interior of the table crouching next to Jack and handed the table clothes to the civilians. He tried not to think about how badly he wanted to be huddled next to them, wrapped up in a heavy table cloth for warmth, waiting to see what Jack would do to save their lives.

Having that responsibility land on his shoulders almost took his breath away.

“Here, Boze,” Jack said suddenly, thrusting one of the wooden folding chairs into his arms. “Break this bad boy up, will ya?”

Bozer darted his gaze from the huddled family to Jack’s face, trying to absorb what the man was telling him. He took the chair, realizing only then how badly his hands were shaking.

“Break it up?”

Jack nodded, his dark eyes intent as they watched Bozer’s face. “Yeah, I need some kindling.”

“Like…for a fire?” Bozer asked, still not quite sure what the other man was up to.

Jack nodded again then crouched down, flipped the metal tub over and dropped the canisters into the bottom. They were Sterno cans, Bozer realized, filled with flammable jelly. He began to break up the chair and hand pieces of wood to Jack.

“When I get this going,” Jack glanced up at the family, “we’ll be warm and toasty until our ride gets here.”

The elderly man murmured quietly to his granddaughter, his wife keeping shell-shocked eyes on Jack’s hands. Bozer finished breaking up one chair and grabbed the other, thankful to have something that kept him busy. Jack used a brass lighter he pulled from one of the pockets of his TAC vest and lit the Sterno cans, the purple-blue flames licking upwards to catch the dry wood of the chairs Jack and stacked in a pyramid above the canisters.

“Is a good idea,” the diplomat nodded, smiling. The family leaned toward the flames, seeking its warmth.

“Got the idea from a friend,” Jack told him. “Wicked-smart kid—way smarter than me,” Jack smiled at the little girl who grinned back as though she knew exactly what he was saying. “He pulled this trick once when we were stuck in,” he quickly glanced toward the diplomat, checking himself, “uh…another really cold place. I thought he was nuts. But just like every other idea he’s had, this one worked. Kept us from freezing to death at least.”

Bozer felt the sharp tug in his chest that always reared up whenever Mac was mentioned, even in passing. It had been a week since he’d heard from his friend, four weeks since he’d seen him. In that time, Bozer had stepped up as best he could, trying to do what he thought Mac would want, trying to keep an eye on things, but realizing with each passing day that life just didn’t work the same without his friend around.

This time without him felt different than when Mac had gone to MIT, different from when he’d been sent to Afghanistan. This didn’t feel like Mac was elsewhere doing something good, saving the world. This felt like Mac had run away, chased by demons all too real.

Bozer continued to stack the wood, watching as Jack picked up one of the longer pieces and handed it to the girl, letting her add it to the flame. As he had with Bozer, Jack seemed to realize that giving her something to do helped her feel less afraid, more in control of her situation and surroundings. Until he’d joined the Phoenix, Bozer didn’t realized how essential that tiny bit of control was to his sanity.

“Atta girl,” Jack said softly as the girl leaned the piece of wood against the pyramid. “You’re a natural.”

He smiled at the girl, earning another grin in return, and it struck Bozer how long it had been since he’d seen Jack smile.

At anyone. About anything.

While they’d all been hit when Mac quit the Phoenix, his absence affected Jack the most. The man had changed—startlingly so. Gone was the carefree goofiness that enticed affectionate eye rolling from Riley and a teasing raised brow from Matty. Gone was the infectious energy that seemed to infuse them all with a will to press forward no matter their own exhaustion.

In its place was a façade of purpose and intent, warmth only fleeting in his eyes.

He completed missions with a singular focus, handing out death sentences with seemingly little concern. Bozer imagined this version of Jack to be the CIA officer,  the Delta soldier—the Jack Dalton that existed before he met Angus MacGyver. It was as though Mac had been the light Jack drew from and without that light, his inner darkness had the power to hold sway.

“This friend…he is soldier?” The diplomat asked, snapping Bozer’s attention back to their current situation.

Jack sat back on his heels, his arms wrapped around his knees, eyes on the flames. “He was, yeah. Once upon a time.”

Bozer sat with his back to the table, creating a triangle of people between the diplomat’s family and Jack. He watched as the older man absentmindedly flicked the top of the brass lighter open and closed.

He wondered where he’d picked up that lighter; Jack didn’t smoke. It wasn’t standard issue. It looked old. Worn. Familiar.

“He’s a genius, this kid,” Jack continued. He smiled sadly, shaking his head once. “He can get so focused on figuring out a solution to some problem you kinda have to steer him away from sign posts, y’know? But then at the same time…he notices everything.” Jack shook his head, looking down. “Everything.”

The little girl whispered something to her grandfather and the elderly man looked up. “Sophia asks why you are sad.”

Bozer looked from Jack’s hands to his face and watched the man’s expression melt from nostalgic sorrow to schooled resolve, his eyes a shade just before black, hiding everything that might have exposed a true emotion. And Bozer knew the only person in the world who could have seen through the mask Jack had just expertly slid in place wasn’t here.

“He, uh…had to go away. And, I miss him,” Jack replied simply. “He taught me a lot—like how to use my environment to my advantage. I’m a soldier; I see a bad guy, I shoot them.” He made a gun with his finger and thumb, pointing toward the heavy door, a _pic-que_ sound on his lips. “Mostly, I just hope for the best. Mac, though. He never sees things as they are…he sees them as they could be. He got us out of so many scrapes, man.” Jack shook his head, eyes on the middle distance. “He’s like a flame. Burning through the world.”

 _And he got caught up in the fire_ , Bozer mused.

The odd light from the midnight sun played across the far corner of the room, their barricade thrown into darkness and shadow by the large table. Bozer could see the greenish-blue hue of the Aurora Borealis playing across the sky from the corner of his eyes and he smiled softly, thinking how Mac wouldn’t be able to help himself—he’d start rambling about solar wind and charged particles or whatever the hell actually created the phenomenon.

And Bozer would just have just sat here thinking it was pretty.

“Your friend is a special person,” the diplomat commented, wrapping an arm more tightly around his wife.

“Yeah, he is,” Bozer chimed in, catching Jack’s surprised glance. It was as if the other man had forgotten he was there for a moment. “And he’d be real impressed with this set up,” Bozer nodded toward the Sterno fire and table barricade.

Jack offered Bozer a small smile, then looked over at the diplomat. “We got a few hours to kill,” he said, shifting slightly when the man blinked in surprise at his choice of words, “that is…we have a little time until our ride gets here. How about you guys get some sleep, yeah?”

The diplomat nodded, then whispered to his wife and granddaughter. The wife immediately closed her eyes, beyond exhausted, but the little girl kept her gaze on Jack. After a moment, she untangled herself from her grandfather’s embrace and crawled across the small space, around the fire, to sit next to Jack.

Leaning back against the wall, Jack uncurled from his tight posture and stretched out his legs. Taking that as an invitation, the girl crawled onto Jack’s lap and put her head against his chest, one hand on a pocket of his TAC vest, fingers curled into a light grip.

“Now, that’s something you don’t see every day,” Bozer muttered.

Jack shifted until he had an arm around the girl to keep her balanced. “What are you talking about? Kids love me.”

Bozer chuffed. “Name one.”

Jack flicked the brass lighter once more, then seemed to realize that playing with a lighter while a little kid sat in his lap wasn’t the best choice. He tucked it into the top pocket of his TAC vest.

“I am telling you, man,” Jack continued. “I am a very soothing presence for kids.”

“And you know that…how, exactly?” Bozer pressed, enjoying the distraction of giving Jack a hard time. “How many kids have you encountered in your lifetime?”

“Not counting you, Riley, and Mac, you mean?” Jack’s grin was ornery.

Bozer shook his head. “We’re not kids.”

“Riley wasn’t much older than Sophia, here, when I met her mom,” Jack pointed out, dropping his head back against the wall, his voice going soft. “And man, she was a tiger, that one. Fierce.” He paused, closing his eyes. “Fierce and fragile.”

“Fragile?” Bozer asked, thinking of the dark-haired hacker.

Jack lifted a shoulder. “Fragile like a bomb.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

“Dude,” Jack chuckled softly, his hand resting almost protectively on Sophia’s shoulder. “She spent the first six months I was with Diane just _pissed_ at me. For existing. I mean, if I asked for some water, she’d hand me a glass of ice and tell me to wait.”

“What changed her mind?”

Jack smiled, rolling his head against the wall and blinking over at Bozer. “Me,” he replied. “Couldn’t resist the ol’ Dalton charm.”

Bozer added more bits of wood to their fire, keeping the flames up. “Well, Mac and me don’t count.”

“The hell you don’t,” Jack huffed, closing his eyes once more. “Mac was all of nineteen when we met.”

Bozer sighed. “Yeah, but Mac was never a kid.”

“Mac’s _still_ a kid,” Jack argued.

“Dude, he was old when I met him and we hadn’t even hit double-digits. He even screwed up like an adult,” Bozer shook his head. “When we got busted for blowing up the football field back at school, I was freaking the fuck out, but Mac was just like,” Bozer pitched his voice lower, “ _I understand what you’re saying, sir, and I can promise you it won’t happen again_.” He shook his head. “I mean. Harry was great at handing out fortune cookie wisdom, but when it came down to it, Mac’s always had to be grown up.”

Something in Jack’s expression darkened as he listened to Bozer. His brows bent over his closed eyes.

“He may think he’s got us all fooled, thinking he can take whatever life hands him because he basically grew up on his own, but he needs us now more than he ever has,” Jack said quietly. “He doesn’t do ‘alone’ very well.”

_On my worst days, I almost died alone._

Mac’s words hummed in Bozer’s memory. Mac had always been strong, had so rarely ever seemed afraid. Even when they were young. He hadn’t really carried himself like a _kid_. He’d just always been…capable.

It was like Jack had said: he saw everything. He was aware of everything going on around him, every day. All the time.

It had taken Mac literally walking out of their lives for Bozer to realize that while his friend had been metaphorically looking over his shoulder all his life, it hadn’t been out of protection against an unknown threat, but to see if anyone had his back.

And Bozer wasn’t sure right now what Mac’s answer might be.

“You know,” Bozer said quietly, his voice cutting through the sound of the treated wood snapping with the heat of the fire. “You play like you’re this tough, old soldier. You’re…Aragorn and we’re just a bunch of little Hobbits all hoping you get our asses out of Mordor.”

 Jack brought his head forward, opening one eye.

“But, we’re a helluva lot more than that.”

Bozer hadn’t forgotten that there were people sitting behind the barricade with them, or that there were armed terrorists on the other side of the door, or that their exfil was still several hours out. But in the safety of the firelight, with the pearled hue of the midnight sun saturating the windows, he was able to ignore all of that for a moment.

Just long enough to remind Bad Ass Delta Jack Dalton that Wilt Bozer knew he was as scared and broken and lonely as the rest of them.

“Bozer,” Jack said quietly, a weight to his voice that Bozer hadn’t heard in a long time. Something about the way Jack said his name reminded Bozer of his father and he instinctively sat up straighter. “I know you’re much more than…than _kids_. You’re asked to cope with more, survive more, than almost anyone else your age. Some of you more than others,” he sighed, shifting so that he was able to sit forward without disturbing the sleeping girl on his lap. “You do it with…with grit. And fire. And I see it, man. I see that…that desperate desire to live another day play out in every choice you each make.”

Bozer lifted his chin in appreciation of Jack’s words.

“But even with all that,” Jack said, raising an eyebrow, “you’re never gonna catch up to me.”

“And here I thought we were having an actual moment,” Bozer scoffed.

Jack grinned, tilting his head back. “You been hanging around Leanna too much, dude. _Aragorn_? Really?”

“Shoot, Jack,” Bozer chuckled. “Leanna hates the _Lord of the Rings_. That’s pure Mac, right there.”

Jack chuckled. “Yeah, I suppose it is.”

It was on the tip of Bozer’s tongue to ask Jack about what he knew of MacGyver’s whereabouts in that moment, but a small explosion on the other side of the door distracted them. From that moment until exfil, it was simply noise and smoke and following orders.

Bozer would say one thing about Jack Dalton: the man did not know how to quit. The easy-going manner Jack had allowed to infiltrate his façade evaporated with that explosion and in its place stood a merchant of death.

While Bozer did his best to not get hit by a stray bullet, Jack took out three hostiles without so much as a flinch. One of them with the mercenary’s own knife, covering Jack’s hands with blood as he kept the man from strangling him and putting himself between the bad guys and the people he was protecting.

When the notice came through that exfil was on deck, Jack got Bozer and the diplomat’s family to the truck that took them to a waiting plane without a scratch on any of them. It made Bozer wonder how different missions were for Jack without Mac there making the impossible possible, finding paths through tangled mazes of chance, and flirting with Fate until she smiled on them.

Bozer thought about talking to the older man on their flight home, but when he saw Jack sink slowly down on the bench seat at the back of the plane as though gravity had extra pull, his head falling forward heavily, his blood-stained hands shaking as they hung between his knees, Bozer swallowed his words.

Anything he wanted to say could wait.

The diplomat brought Jack a warm towel as his family rested; Jack looked up with a smile of gratitude and used it to clean the blood from his hands while the diplomat waited. When he’d finished, the diplomat took the cloth from Jack and folded it almost reverently, then nodded slowly, offering a silent _thank you_ for their lives.

Bozer watched the whole exchange, logging a new appreciation for the man who was at once friend, protector, soldier, and spy.

When they landed, the family was transported to a safe house, Sophia peaking over her grandfather’s shoulder at Jack with a small, shy smile as they parted ways on the tarmac. Bozer and Jack returned to the Phoenix Foundation headquarters, heading to the armory before meeting Matty for their debrief. Bozer watched as the man pulled out multiple weapons, checked each one meticulously, removed the ammo, and put the weapon back in its case.

“I’m sorry I was extra work today,” Bozer spoke up.

Jack glanced at him. “What makes you say that?”

Bozer shrugged, absentmindedly tugging on the strap of his Kevlar. “Just watching you. All I had to do was stay out of the way. You kinda had to be both Mac and Jack in one today.”

“Just doing my job, man.”

“I thought your job was protecting Mac,” Bozer commented without thinking.

Jack shot him a dark look, but continued to unpack his weapons.

“Did you know Mac was sick a week ago?” Bozer suddenly found himself asking.

Jack’s shoulders twitched. “This some kind of test, Boze?”

Bozer blinked, straightening up and unclipping his Kevlar. “No,” he replied mildly. “Just…y’know. Asking.”

“Uh-huh.”

“When we were kids and he’d get sick,” Bozer continued, eyes tracking Jack’s movements as the man removed his TAC vest and began to empty the pockets, “he’d hide in his room. Like he was afraid he’d get in trouble or something. He ever tell you that?”

Jack nodded. “In Afghanistan,” he replied. “He got the flu real bad one time but didn’t tell anyone. Hell, we were always dehydrated, sweating our asses off…it was hard to tell he had a fever. Until he pitched face-first out of the Humvee.” Jack glanced back at Bozer with a rueful grin. “That was a pretty big clue right there.”

He turned back to his vest. “I got him to the infirmary and read him the riot act. Kept demanding to know why he hadn’t said anything. He just,” Jack shrugged, chuffing. “He just looked at me, these big blue eyes like some kind of kicked puppy. And when I finally stopped long enough to take a breath, he told me he was supposed to take care of it himself.”

Bozer nodded. “When I moved in with him, I stocked us up on cold and flu meds. He told me he knew what I was doing and I just…y’know. Acted dumb.” He smiled, eyes sliding away from the figure of strength and willpower Jack painted, resting his gaze on a thin crack in the wood that ran vertically up the side of the gun cabinet. “He didn’t actually come out and _say_ he was sick this time. I just…knew. And, damn, I wanted to do something.”

Jack half turned toward him. “Did you?”

“I…,” Bozer shifted uncomfortably. What had started as a fishing expedition to find out what Jack knew about his best friend now felt a bit like an interrogation. “I _would_ have. Hell, I’d’ve used company resources to send a med kit to him. But…I don’t know where he is now.”

Nodding, eyes cast down and expression hidden from Bozer, Jack pulled the brass lighter from the pocket of his TAC vest and slipped it into his pants pocket.

“What’s the deal with the lighter, man?” Bozer asked suddenly.

Jack looked surprised, then pulled the rectangular tool from his pocket, regarding it resting in his calloused palm. The laugh lines around his dark eyes gathered and creased as memories played tag across his features. He flipped the lid up, striking a flame.

Bozer could see an engraving on the back of the lid: _For those who fight for it, life has a flavor the protected will never know_.

“It was my Pop’s,” Jack told him. “He carried it with him in ‘Nam.”

Bozer nodded, waiting for more. He’d become pretty good at that lately. It was one thing that had changed about him with Mac’s departure. He no longer found himself fueled by nervous, anxious energy. Patience was now the gravitational pull with their motley little family.

“I had it in this box of things of his—dog tags, money clip, sunglasses,” Jack lifted a shoulder. “Just those little things that don’t mean much to big picture people, but mean everything when you’re missing someone.”

Bozer hummed a quiet understanding. Jack let the flame die, closing the lid.

“Anyway, when Mac lost his granddad’s Swiss Army Knife on a mission, I started carrying this bad boy. Kinda felt like we had at least one of those guys with us, y’know?”

“You got Mac another knife, though,” Bozer said, drawing Jack’s eyes. “He told me.”

“Well, sure,” Jack grinned. “You ever see our boy try to complete a mission without that little red knife?”

“He’s not completing any missions now,” Bozer muttered, fully aware that he sounded sullen.

When Mac left for Afghanistan, Bozer set up an email specifically for Mac to reach out. He’d only semi-jokingly called it _proof of life._ Since Harry had died before Mac left MIT, and they had no idea where Mac’s father was—at the time—there was no one else Mac had in his life who cared if he lived or died over there.

Just shy of four weeks ago, Bozer came home to find a quiet house and a note. Two days later, he got an email from Mac. Proof of life. Each time had been from a public IP address. Riley had been able to trace it to a general location, but there was no way to check to see if Mac had been in those locations or had simply dropped into a library on his way to somewhere else.

_I’m good. Don’t worry. Be safe._

Each message had been close to the same—until the one saying he’d _been better_. That one Riley had been able to trace to an emergency room in Nepal. Bozer had spent a tense twenty-four hours refreshing his screen until Riley called to say that she’s been able to confirm that Mac was at the emergency room being treated for a lung infection. It took another twenty-four hours for ‘proof of life’ to spit out a _still here_ message.

Bozer hadn’t said anything to Jack or Matty; it had felt a little like he was keeping Mac all to himself, which hadn’t been the case since the moment his friend met Jack Dalton in the desert of Afghanistan. Riley hadn’t made a big deal about his requests to trace the emails; she seemed to get the need for secrecy as well.

“He’s not gone forever, Boze,” Jack said, breaking into Bozer’s thoughts. He rested a hand on Bozer’s shoulder.

“I just miss him, y’know?” Bozer sighed. “I mean, the house was too damn quiet. I had to move in with Leanna.”

“Oh, you _had to_ , huh?” Jack gave him a sly half-grin. “Couldn’t, I don’t know. Turn the radio on or something.”

Bozer shoved Jack’s hand away from his shoulder. “Shut up. You know what I mean. Mac’s just…there’s always this energy around him. He’s always tinkering with something. That damn motorcycle for one. He never really said much, but he still just…made all kinds of noise.”

Jack chuckled, rubbing the flat of his hand over his closely-cropped hair. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“And with Mac gone, you stopped coming around even, so it was just me and this bad-guy magnet of a house…,” Bozer sighed.

“Hell, man,” Jack dropped his hand, his thumbs hooked into his belt. “I’d move to Leanna’s, too.”

Bozer noted that the man didn’t apologize for not coming around. He narrowed his eyes. “I’m surprised you stayed here, Jack.”

At that Jack drew his head back. “What do you mean?”

“When Mac left…I thought you’d go with him.”

Jack looked askance at the door to the armory. “Yeah, you weren’t the only one,” he replied cryptically.

“I guess…,” Bozer swallowed, trying to find the right words. “I guess when you both were out there—even when I didn’t know exactly what you were doing—I knew Mac would always come home. _You’d_ bring him home. But…now, I….”

“Mac’s coming back, Boze,” Jack declared with a sense of finality entrenched so deeply in his words Bozer felt compelled to believe him. “He’s just clearing his head. Trying to figure some things out.”

Bozer rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, maybe,” he said carefully. “It’s just…he’s been through a lot in his life. I’ve seen some of it, you’ve seen some of it. What if this is the thing that…that breaks him, y’know?”

Jack frowned. “Naw, Mac’s—“

“A guy who found out that the dad he thought was missing or…hell, _dead_ , even…was not only _around_ the whole time, but didn’t want to be found _and_ put him on missions where he was, like, always in danger.”

As he spoke, Bozer’s voice grew higher and louder to the point he felt his pulse at his temple. He took a breath, watching Jack’s face, the way the man’s eyes grew harder with each word. Jack didn’t reply, but his hands curled into tight fists at his sides. Looking over Bozer’s shoulder toward the door, Jack lifted his chin and stepped around the other man, heading toward the elevator.

Bozer followed, at once regretting his outburst and feeling relieved that he’d finally said something. They rode the elevator in silence, intending to head toward the conference room for the debrief when they were greeted by a solemn-looking Riley as the doors opened.

“Change of plans,” she said, showing them the face of her phone. “We’re going to the War Room.”

“Matty say what for?” Jack asked, digging out his own phone from his jeans pocket and turning it on.

“Nope,” Riley sighed, joining them in the elevator and hitting the button for the correct floor. She glanced first at Bozer and then at Jack. “What’s with you two? You look like someone stole your lunchboxes.”

“Nothing,” they replied in unison, and Bozer cast a side-line glance at Jack.

“Oh-kay,” Riley replied, stretching the word out like taffy. “But you better button it up because Matty has not been in a great mood all day.”

“Huh,” Jack muttered. “Must be Tuesday.”

Bozer bit the side of his cheek to keep his grin in check.

It was no secret that since Mac left, Matty had been on a bit of a tear—no prizes guessing why, either. Since Oversight had made himself known, Matty’s life had become a bit complicated. Keeping her agents safe had become the first of her agenda items, the completion of the mission second.

James MacGyver, it seemed, thought otherwise.

They walked into the War Room, Riley leading the way, Bozer following and Jack bringing up the rear. They all stumbled to a surprised halt to find not only Matty waiting for them but James MacGyver as well. Bozer hadn’t seen Mac’s dad since the day Mac walked out of the Phoenix. In fact, none of them had. It had been like before: Matty reporting up to Oversight about their missions as they were completed or assigned.

Finding him lounging in one of the leather chairs, his feet propped up next to the bowl of paperclips no one had had the heart to remove, was a shock.

“Well, ain’t this a surprise,” Jack practically snarled. “Sir.”

James simply lifted an eyebrow in Jack’s direction. Bozer thought it almost physically hurt to find that expression so familiar. Just on the wrong face.

“The debrief on the extraction of the Lithuanian diplomat and his family is going to have to wait,” Matty announced, stepping forward to grab their attention away from James. “But, I will say you both did well.”

“They’re okay?” Bozer asked, thinking about the little girl with big eyes staring at Jack like he hung the moon.

Matty nodded, a small smile relaxing her features for a brief moment. “They’re fine. And the documentation is secure as we have the only encryption key currently in a safe house.”

“Good,” Jack replied, his eyes still on James. “So, what’s the story?”

Riley and Bozer moved around the edges of the couch and took a seat. Jack remained where he was, tension in every line of his body. Bozer shifted his eyes to James and saw the man stalwartly looking away from Jack. His posture felt smug, but it was possible he could be reading into it, Bozer allowed.

After all, he was predisposed to thinking of his boss as a total asshat.

“A new threat has recently emerged,” Matty said, hitting a button on a small remote in her hand, lighting up the large screen behind her. Bozer felt Riley gasp in unison with him as a familiar image clicked forward: Jonah Walsh.

Jack was around the couch and moving toward the center of the room in a heartbeat, his eyes on the image.

“Oh, hell no, Matty,” he muttered.

Without replying, Matty clicked another button and four other men whose faces Bozer did not recognize joined Walsh.

“We are familiar with Walsh,” Matty cut to the chase, “and his obsession with completing the KX7 toxin. Recent intelligence has linked him with these four men. The two on the left are French mercenaries, Gerard Bisset and this man we know only by the name Caron. The two on the right are German scientists, Hans Weber and Adam Wagner.”

“Hans,” Jack scoffed. “That’s just perfect.”

Ignoring Jack, Matty continued. “As he hasn’t been able to finish the KX7 formula, it appears that Walsh has gotten his hands on another biochemical weapon called Syntac XR. It’s unclear where the connection point between Walsh and the scientists was made, but since we’ve been following Walsh very closely for the last few months,” Matty glanced toward James, “the Syntac XR popped up on our radar.”

While Bozer was trying to remember to breathe normally with this latest bout of terrifying information, Jack was shaking his head.

“Y’know, this is usually the point where Mac breaks in with all his science stuff to bore us to death,” he quipped.

Matty smiled slightly in understanding; the tension in the room was palpable and Jack’s words had started to ease the posture of the two agents on the couch.

But then James MacGyver pushed to his feet, eyes trailing Jack from buzzed hair to combat boots. Bozer watched as Jack pulled his chin up, his eyes dark and challenging, surveilling James crossing the room like a panther.

“Syntac XR is an aerosol-based paralytic,” James informed them, eyes on Jack alone. “It has been known to cause blindness and burning and blistering on contact. If inhaled,” he stepped closer to Jack, his posture blatantly challenging, “it’s been proven to damage lungs similar to sarin gas, and while it hasn’t killed outright, it will cause extreme pain and disorientation. Its full effects are as yet unknown.”

Tilting his head slightly, he studied Jack carefully. “Bored yet?”

Bozer felt Riley slide closer to him across the couch and he met her halfway, not taking his eyes from the two men at the center of the room.

“Y’know, _Sir_ ,” Jack replied, somehow making that word sound derogatory, “I seem to remember you had a hand in helping Walsh with KX7. Maybe you helped with this Syntac, too? Are we cleaning up another one of your messes?”

“Jack!” Matty barked as James stepped forward.

“That’s a pretty dangerous accusation, Agent,” James returned. “We’re talking about a formula that could injure millions—maybe even kill, we don’t yet know the extent of the damage it could cause.”

Bozer felt Riley’s hand clasp his as they watched the verbal sparring match. He felt himself trembling from the inside out with an unnamable rage. Everything about this moment was wrong.

Jack tilted his head, clasping his hands in front of his belt. “Too bad we don’t have an Agent on staff with MIT-level intelligence and weapons expertise to help us figure out what to do about neutralizing it.”

“I didn’t _make_ Angus quit!” James nearly shouted, his façade of dominance finally slipping.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Jack returned, his voice like a cracked whip. “The only thing you taught that kid that stuck with him was how to walk away.”

Bozer flinched at that and felt more than heard Riley draw in a sharp breath.

“All right, that’s enough!” Matty snapped, stepping between the two men, her smaller stature inconsequential in the face of her indignation. “You both will back down _immediately_ or you will clear out of my War Room.”

Jack responded instinctively, taking a step back and tucking his hands behind him at parade rest. James turned to stare at Matty.

“This is _my_ War Room, Matilda,” he reminded her.

Matty’s dark eyes were snapping with anger. “Not when you behave in a threatening manner toward one of my Agents, Sir,” she reminded him, her tone clipped but professional. “Now, do you and Agent Dalton need to speak privately, or can we continue to prepare for this Op?”

Bozer dared a glance at Riley and saw her mouth twisted in a small grin of approval.

James took a steadying breath and turned away from them, facing the screen. Jack, however, was wired. Bozer could practically see the man vibrating from where he sat. Moving toward the frosted-over windows, he began to pace in a quick, eight-step pattern while he listened to Matty.

Turning back to the screen, Matty picked up where she left off. “We have received word that the French and Germans are working with an Italian scientist to turn the Syntac into a water-based weapon. No word on who the Italian scientist is, yet. And there’s no confirmation that Walsh is with them.”

“Are we sure Walsh is involved?” Jack asked, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw muscle visibly bouncing with tension.

“He is,” James replied. “Trust me.”

Matty sighed and closed her eyes as though anticipating Jack’s response.

“Trust,” Jack said in a voice so unlike his own Bozer found himself watching the man’s mouth to make sure it was actually moving. “Funny word for you to toss around.”

It looked like Jack was gearing up for another head-to-head with James when the elder MacGyver turned around to address Jack’s tone, but before either of them could speak, Matty broke in.

“The French and Germans are preparing to meet with the Italian scientist,” she continued, looking over her shoulder at the images. “They arrived in Rome this morning.”

“What?” Jack broke in, his voice strangled. There was something so desperate about the way he said that word, Riley stood up as though to go to him. “Where did you say they were, Matty?”

Matty looked at him, clearly surprised. “Rome.”

Jack swallowed and rubbed at the top of his hair with the flat of his hand. “Mac’s in Rome,” he choked out.

At this, Bozer stood up. Jack knew. Jack _knew_ where Mac was.

“I know,” Matty replied, narrowing her eyes at Jack. “But I didn’t know that _you_ knew.”

“Neither did I,” James chimed in, coming up to stand behind Matty, eyeing Jack.

Jack ignored their boss and kept his eyes on Matty. “Did you _really_ think I asked Jill to teach me how to use the flux capacitor in the lab? I’ve been tracking him.”

Matty frowned with confusion, “The flux…?” She glanced at Riley.

“He means the decoupling capacitor,” she spoke up, then waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “It was this whole big…y’know what? I was just happy he remembered Jill’s name.”

“You’ve been _tracking_ him?” James repeated. “Since when?”

Jack shot him a look. “Since the minute he walked out of this office four weeks ago,” he replied. “You think I was going to just let him out there, on his own, with Murdoc on the loose? Let alone The Ghost, El Noche? There are more people who want him dead than care about keeping him alive.”

James blinked at that, visibly subdued. Bozer was still stunned silent. Though, in retrospect, he supposed he shouldn’t have been. Jack never did  well when Mac was in trouble, especially when he was somewhere Jack couldn’t reach.

“Have, uh…have you heard from him?” James asked, his voice surprisingly vulnerable for a moment.

Jack glanced at his boss and it seemed that instead of an evil overlord, he saw a worried father for a fraction of a second. “Yes,” he replied. “A phone call a week, and two post cards. No return addresses.” Jack had the decency to cast an apologetic look toward Bozer, clearly having surmised what Bozer had been fishing for earlier. “I didn’t have a secret email account, and…he knew I’d hunt him down if he didn’t reach out to me.”

“Looks like you did anyway,” Matty commented. “With company resources, no less.”

Jack held up a hand. “Now, Matty, don’t go getting after Jill for this,” he defended. “She honestly had no idea what I was doing.”

“Bullshit,” Matty retorted, though Bozer could see a small smile at the corner of her mouth. “Nothing goes on in that lab that Jill doesn’t know about. Even Riley knew what you were doing.”

Jack and Bozer shot a look over to Riley, who put her hands up in surrender. “I—I didn’t….”

“You knew?” Bozer squeaked, staring at Riley with blatant hurt painting his features. “All that time, all those weeks I was asking you to track his emails, just to make sure he was okay, and you _knew_?”

“Bozer, look, I’m sorry—“

Bozer shook his head, moving away from both Riley and Jack to the other side of the room. “No, y’know what? I get it. You were just trying to protect him, or whatever. I get it. But I ain’t gonna lie. This hurts, Ri.”

“I know.” Riley’s face folded in apology. “I didn’t tell anyone I knew where he was. It’s just that Jack…Mac _needed_ Jack to be watching out for him. If he was really in trouble, I would have told you, I swear!”

“Was he really in the ER in Nepal?” Bozer challenged.

“Wait, what ER?” James broke in.

They ignored him.

“He was,” Riley replied, eyes beseeching Bozer to understand. “For two days, and then he checked out and I lost him again until he called Jack from a payphone in Rome. He’s been there for about a week.”

“He went to an ER?” James repeated, sounding slightly dazed. “Angus never voluntarily seeks medical attention.”

“And whose fault is that?” Jack challenged.

“Jack,” Matty tried once more, but it didn’t sound as if her heart was in her protest.

“He’s okay, Sir,” Riley broke in, trying to find some way to return the conversation to their version of normal. “He had a lung infection.”

“Bad enough to go to the ER,” Bozer muttered.

Riley smacked him on the shoulder with the back of her hand whispering, “Not. Helping.”

“Matty, if these bad guys are in Rome…,” Jack let the question fade out, clearly having come to some conclusion that Bozer hadn’t yet reached.

Matty took a breath and squared her shoulders, the shimmering teal of her blouse settling around her. She stared for a moment at Jack; Bozer watched the color drain from Jack’s face before the older man shook his head and turned his back, his fingers laced together against his neck. Bozer looked at Riley and saw his confusion echoing back from her expression.

“The plan is to contact Angus and reinstate him,” James declared.

“What! No way!” Bozer said without thinking.

“You can’t do that,” Jack protested at the same time, turning around to face them once more.

James focused his attention on Jack, though Bozer saw Matty looking in his direction with a bit of surprise.

“He is the most capable Agent we have to handle this situation.”

“He’s _not_ an Agent,” Jack protested. “You can’t force him to come back just because it’s convenient.” He stepped toward his boss, his hands on his hips, body tilted forward at the waist. “Mac is a grown man—returning to this job has to be _his_ decision, not something you orchestrate for him.”

“Angus has genius-level intelligence and is combat and weapons trained,” James returned. “It’s his duty to agree to be reinstated and help us neutralize this biological weapon before it injures or kills thousands, perhaps millions of people.”

“His…his _duty_?” Jack’s voice cracked. Bozer could feel rage rolling from him, slipping around the room like an echo.

Jack turned away from James, running a hand over his hair, and then before Matty could step in, he whirled around, advancing on James, making the elder MacGyver step back a few paces.

“All that boy has _ever_ wanted in his life is to keep the people he cares about safe. Since the day I met him, he has fought and bled for those people.” Jack lifted a hand as though he meant to grab James MacGyver by the front of his shirt, then curled his fingers into a fist so tight his knuckles turned white. “He’s not some kind of trigger you can pull—a…a _weapon_ you can use against the latest attack on humanity. He is a kid…he’s _my partner_. And I won’t let you use him like that. Not like that.” He dropped his hand and straightened up, his voice faltering. “Not anymore.”

Bozer’s eyes were burning; he didn’t think he blinked the entire time Jack was speaking. James tugged his shirt down, smoothing it out even though Jack hadn’t touched him.

“Well, that’s just it, isn’t it?” James replied, his voice smooth and all-too smug for Bozer’s liking. “The day you met him was only seven years ago. You haven’t known him long enough to say what he’s really wanted all his life, have you?”

“Maybe not,” Bozer replied. “But I have.”

Four pairs of eyes turned to stare at him. Bozer felt slightly separated from his body. As if he’d simply stepped aside and another person—a person with a purpose and fury powerful enough to fuel his voice—had stepped into his skin.

“You might not remember it, Mr. MacGyver,” he said, foregoing the hierarchical epithet of ‘Sir’ and retreating to his childhood nomenclature, “but I went to school with Mac.”

James exhaled slightly as though irritated by the direction this conversation was taking. “Of course I remember, Wilt. Why do you think I allowed you to be hired? Having you here kept Angus in check.”

Bozer flinched. He’d suspected it, but having confirmation that his hire had primarily been one more thing to control his best friend felt like a punch to the gut. He saw Matty look at the floor from the corner of his eye, unable to tell from her expression if she’d known that as well.

“Good,” he swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “Then when I tell you what Jack said is true…you have to believe it. Because…I remember _you_ , too.” He watched as James straightened, chin pulled up as though anticipating a blow. “I remember when we were nine and Mac fell out of our treehouse and dislocated his shoulder. I took him to you and you told him that you knew he hadn’t calculated the correct load balance into the structure to take both our weight. I didn’t know what the hell you were talking about but Mac did. He just agreed with you and let Harry take him to the doctors and you just…kept working.”

James started to shake his head but Bozer wasn’t done. He’d been waiting a month to put this information somewhere—to unburden himself of these memories he couldn’t seem to release. And he honestly couldn’t think of a better time than right the hell now.

“I remember I asked Mac about it after his shoulder healed up and we finished the treehouse and he said he didn’t have the math right. And I was confused, y’know? Because…how could a dad care more about _math_ than his own kid? And Mac just said, ‘You don’t know my dad.’”

He saw Riley sink down to the couch from the corner of his eye, and he stepped forward so that James MacGyver’s pale face and squared jaw filled his field of vision. The man’s eyes were somehow both hurt and accusing as they stared back at him.

“I remember when you left, too. Not the actual day—though, Mac does. With, like, perfect recall. He even remembers what he was wearing. But I _do_ remember how he changed. He kind pulled in, y’know? Even around me. It was hard to get him to open up about…hell, anything. For the longest time he just…he just didn’t _engage_. It was like he’d been scooped out.”

Bozer took a breath, dragging the flat of his hand over his mouth, trying to steady his voice. “This one day, these guys in our middle school tried to beat me up. Nothing big. I mean, I was a black kid in a small town school. Even in California, you’re going to have idiots. Mac, though, he stood up for me. And got his ass beat for it, too. They even knocked him out, did you know that?”

James glanced down. “No,” he said quietly. “Harry didn’t tell me.”

“Naw, but you were around, though, right? You never went really far,” Bozer felt bitterness creep into his tone. “You knew when he graduated a whole year early and went to MIT at seventeen and how my Mom and Dad helped him move into the dorms because he didn’t have anyone else. And you knew when Harry died. Mac was eighteen then. Luckily for you, right? I mean, technically, he was an adult.”

“Look, Wilt—“

Bozer interrupted his boss, holding up a hand. “I get that you had some kind of control over his life, one way or another. You knew when he met Jack and that he pretty much nearly died every damn day over in Afghanistan. For all I know, you probably knew about our secret proof of life email check-in system. You knew about every one of the missions with DSX and the Phoenix—hell, you _sent him_ on them. Put him right in the middle of the fire. You know how many lives he’s saved—how many times he’s saved _my_ life. Jack’s life. Riley’s life. You probably have a tally sheet up there in your office somewhere.”

James shook his head slowly as if he was ready to wrap this up.

“But how many nightmares did you have to wake him up from, Sir?” Bozer challenged. “Long time before he was an EoD tech and a bad-ass spy, he’d have bad dreams about you, about his mom. About Harry. He’d get so scared he’d shake. The only thing that would calm him down is playing Sega Genesis or some shit. Something normal. Something real. Did you know _that_?”

James simply stared at Bozer, his mouth set in a grim line.

“So, when Jack says that he’s not a trigger you can pull, you need to believe that we _all_ think that. We all _know_ that. And you need to know that, too.”

Bozer felt drained. Exhausted. As if he’d run a mile in under a minute.

“Are you through?” James replied in a carefully controlled voice.

Bozer glanced around him and realized that Jack had moved to stand just behind him and to the right, as if covering his six. Riley was standing on his other side; he hadn’t even noticed her rise. Matty hadn’t moved, but her eyes were suspiciously shiny.

“For now,” Bozer replied.

James turned to Matty. “I’m going to Rome to get my son back.”

“With all due respect, Sir,” Matty replied. “No, you’re not.”

James brought his chin up again. “I may not be his boss any longer, but I’m still his father.”

Bozer felt Jack tremble with the need to negate that sentiment, but before he could, Matty spoke up again. “We need to decide which is more important: getting Mac to return to the Phoenix, or stopping Syntac XR from becoming a water-soluble weapon.”

“They’re both important!” James protested. “We need one to do the other!”

“Sir,” Matty replied patiently, her expression schooled and impassive. “If you go to Rome, we have zero chance of accomplishing either task.”

James blinked at her, apparently surprised into silence.

“Jack will go,” Matty declared.

“I’ll stop Walsh’s crew and get that weapon back,” Jack agreed, “but I’m not going to make that kid do anything he doesn’t want to do. He’s had enough people pulling his strings to last a lifetime.”

As Matty nodded her understanding, James sputtered a protest. “There is no way Dalton has enough knowledge to acquire the Syntac and stop these men without Angus—“

“Sir,” Matty stepped forward, her voice hard. “Jack is a highly skilled, trained operative. He will go and he will secure the Syntac. We will worry about the men later.”

James stared at Matty and Bozer felt something shift in the energy of the room, almost as if the balance of power had turned. James nodded once, then turned to stare at the screen.

“Jack,” Matty turned to face her Agent. “I know you just returned, and I’m sorry to do this to you, but there’s not a lot of time here. I’ll send the details of the Op to your phone and you can study up on the plane. Riley will get you set up with surveillance gear.”

“I’ll be fine, Matty,” Jack reassured her.

“I want you more than fine,” Matty replied.

Jack gave her a tight smile. “Don’t worry so much. I’m pretty invested in not dying.”

“I want to go with you,” Bozer suddenly spoke up. “I know I wasn’t all that awesome on the Norway mission, but—“

Jack stepped close, resting a hand on Bozer’s shoulder and leveling his eyes. “You were just fine on the Norway mission, Boze,” he said. “You did your job and those people came home alive. That’s all that matters. This isn’t about you being a good Agent. This is about Mac.” He dropped his hand from Bozer’s shoulder and rubbed the back of his neck, tiredly. “He’s a flight risk right now, man. He’s running and he’s…he’s not ready to stop yet.”

“But—“

“Boze, if I thought this was going to be just a matter of picking him up and taking him home, I would have done it weeks ago. You think it’s been easy watching him go through this so far away?”

“No,” Bozer replied, shaking his head, slightly mollified. Jack may have known where Mac was, but it hadn’t given him any extra advantage. If anything, it had made it harder for Jack to respect Mac’s need for space. “I getcha, Jack.”

“Believe me,” Jack smiled at him, and Bozer felt the warmth of it sink into his bones. “What you did just now? That was everything.”

Bozer glanced to the side to see the back of James MacGyver as the man waited for them to leave. “Thanks,” he whispered. “But I’m sticking with Riley, and we’re not letting you guys out of our sight, you understand?”

Jack grinned. “I’m counting on it.” He nodded at Matty, then turned to head from the room.

James turned on his heel and caught Jack at the door. “Dalton.”

Jack paused and half turned to face his boss.

“Look, I…,” James took a breath, resting his hands on his hips in a posture that was so _Mac_ , Bozer caught his breath. “I didn’t realize all that. About Angus, I mean.”

Jack scoffed. “The amount you don’t realize about your own son could choke an elephant.”

“You might do well to remember who you’re talking to, Agent Dalton,” James protested.

Jack lifted an eyebrow. “I know exactly who I’m talking to: a man who walked out on his kid when he was needed most.” He glanced at Bozer and Riley, then towards Matty before looking back at James. “Now, if there’s nothing else, I’m gonna go save the world from your partner’s friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N** : The quote on Jack's lighter, _"For those who fight for it, life has a flavor the protected will never know,"_ is from Theodore Roosevelt. I googled "Zippo lighters from Vietnam era" and there was an image of a lighter exactly like the one I pictured Jack carrying with that quote. It seemed rather perfect for our Jack.


	2. Chapter 2

**24 hours later  
Rome, Italy **

**1100**

**_-Jack-_ **

Jack tried to review the information Matty sent him on the mission, but part of his mind was on the tete-a-tete he’d just engaged in with his partner’s father…who just so happened to hold his future in the palm of his hand. Regardless of the outcome of this mission, he was really pretty sure he’d signed his career away with that stunt.

And he couldn’t say he was bothered by that fact.

He’d not left the Phoenix when Mac walked away simply because he’d known he wouldn’t be able to follow Mac wherever the kid escaped to—specifically _because_ Mac was looking to escape. But not being able to watch out for Mac…being blind to him…he couldn’t live with that.

He’d known that Oversight—he couldn’t yet really think of him as _James_ and there was only room for one MacGyver in his life—would most likely do the same. The man had been tracking the kid all his life anyway. So, Jack had to stay and make sure Mac got the escape he needed—and stayed alive long enough to come home.

He just hadn’t counted on how hard it would be to be the one left behind.

“Focus, Dalton,” he admonished himself, reading further on the French mercenaries and German scientists working on the Syntac XR weapon. “Soldiers and scientists,” he mused.

Sounded like something James MacGyver and Jonah Walsh would have worked up. He’d only been poking the bear when he mentioned the KX7 before, but there was something decidedly hinky about this operation. Walsh’s name was linked to the information and yet Jack could find nothing about his involvement with the men he would be hunting in Italy.

And there was still the question of who the Italian scientist was—there was virtually no intel on him. If Matty hadn’t looked so worried when she talked about Syntac XR, Jack might’ve been willing to suspect that Oversight had orchestrated this whole scenario just to get Mac back into the fold.

A small part of him still wondered if it was real.

“Not gonna happen,” Jack muttered, setting his phone aside and stretching out on the seat, his hands behind his head.

Maybe he’d talk to Mac about starting their own business. Humanitarian missions to appeal to Mac’s sense of honor and duty to mankind, protection details on rich socialites for Jack…and to bring in the money. Something where they could use their considerable skill set to do some good in the world, be their own bosses.

Something that kept him by Mac’s side, because as much as he said he understood what Mac was going through, the last month had been hell.

 _“Mic check, Jack.”_ Riley’s voice in his ear as they touched down on the tarmac surprised him.

“Well, look who had her Wheaties this morning!” Jack commented, exiting the plane. It was nearly noon and a warm day, but not overly hot. He didn’t feel he’d break into a sweat standing still. Which was nice; Jack preferred being cold to being hot.

 _“It’s eight o’clock at night here, Jack,”_ Riley returned. _“You’re nine hours behind us.”_

“Hell,” Jack joked, “maybe I need me some Wheaties, then.”

 _“You got all your gear?”_ Riley asked, her nervousness seeping through the earpiece.

Jack paused on the tarmac, the duffle bag of equipment and weapons hanging loosely from his grip, his shoulders curling forward as though he could wrap himself around her voice to reassure her.

“It’s gonna be okay, Ri,” he said quietly.

Riley didn’t reply right away, and when she did, she sounded all of twelve. That fierce and fragile girl in wild pigtails staring up at him with big brown eyes. _“You’re all by yourself on this one, Jack. It’s…you haven’t been on your own for a long time.”_

“I’m not by myself!” he protested. “I’ve got you in my ear and Bozer on surveillance and Matty ready with an exfil the second I need it.”

_“But you don’t have Mac and this is a bio weapon, Jack. Bio. Weapon. Not something you can take out with a gun.”_

“I don’t plan to take _it_ out,” Jack replied, continuing forward to the hanger. “I plan to take out the bad guys holding it.”

 _“You know what I mean,”_ Riley sighed. _“Maybe…if you find Mac—“_

“No, Ri,” Jack stated flatly, scanning the hanger for the drop car.

 _“Not to bring him back in, just to help you!”_ Riley hurriedly assured him.

“I’ll be fine, Ri,” Jack said, finally spotting the vehicle. “A Fiat, Matty? Really?”

 _“You were always planning on finding him, weren’t you?”_ Riley said, realization dawning.

Jack grinned, tossing his gear in the back and folding himself behind the steering wheel. “What do you think?”

_“And are you going to tell him about the Syntac?”_

“Try not to worry,” Jack replied. “I’ve been doing this a long time, y’know.”

 _“Just…make sure you come home, okay?”_ Riley replied. _“Even if he won’t.”_

Jack was quiet a moment. He realized in that moment that even though he wasn’t going to talk Mac into coming back to the Phoenix, he’d always planning on bringing Mac back to L.A. with him. It had been a certainty in the back-beat of his heart: Mac belong back home. With them.

But until Riley said those words of caution, he’d not really allowed himself to think about what he’d do if Mac truly didn’t want to return.

“You save me a beer and a slice; I’ll be there,” he promised. “Now, you guys got me on your fancy equipment there?”

 _“We’re reading you. It’s set to record whenever it picks up voices and we’re monitoring in shifts—me, Bozer, and Jill,”_ Riley told him.

“Roger that,” Jack replied. He pulled out of the hanger, the small, squarish vehicle rocking slightly with his speed. “Whoo- _hoo_! This thing can move!”

 _“Be careful, Jack,”_ Riley admonished. _“You don’t want to get pulled over for speeding!”_

“Hey, you know what they say,” Jack laughed, shifting to fifth gear. “When in Rome…!”

It didn’t take long to get from the out-of-the way hanger to the outskirts of traffic heading into the city. He knew from his surveillance that Mac had been in Rome for a little over a week and had located a small apartment to rent. The kid had spent the first three weeks bouncing from place to place, no real pattern, no apparent purpose except to be somewhere else. For all Jack knew, Mac made his choice of where to go next literally by a roll of dice.

Jack was willing to bet the only reason he stayed in this place for so long was that he’d wanted to heal up from his sickness in Nepal. Hell, maybe he was just tired. Even geniuses on the run had to slow down once in a while. Or so Jack surmised.

This wasn’t Jack’s first time in Rome. Knowing how to blend in, he found a place to stash his car near the Piazza Santa Maria in Trastevere, where he knew Mac had been frequenting a café. Grabbing a hat and jacket and slinging his pack over his shoulder, he moved through the mid-day crowd of people in the square until he found a small table outside the café.

Plucking a paper from the chair next to him, Jack sat down and pretended to read while he scanned the area for Mac. It didn’t take long. He spotted Mac’s unmistakable figure sitting on the steps out in front of the café along with about two dozen other people.

Jack felt the air leave him for a moment.

He was here. He was safe, he was whole, and he was _here_.

His blond hair was longer—long enough that it was falling into his eyes, causing him to periodically toss his head to the side every few minutes in a move so Jared Leto, Jack was going to have to call him on it. He was dressed in jeans and a dark blue T-shirt, a gray hoodie tied around his waist. A sketch book was balanced on his knee and he was flipping a pencil around his fingers, eyes narrowed against a beam of sunlight and focused on the building across the square.

He looked about as far from a spy—or a soldier, for that matter—as a college kid on vacation.

Jack had to grin when he saw Mac tip his head to the side and realized there was a paperclip balanced on the edge of his lips. Mac looked back down at his sketch book, his pencil hitting the paper and moving to capture whatever mental picture his quick mind had just taken. The paperclip danced across Mac’s mouth, as though moving in time to the rhythm of his thoughts.

Just as Jack was about to stand and approach the kid, a dark-haired waitress stepped out, a dish towel draped over a pair of capris and tied around her narrow waist, her loose shirt parted low enough Jack felt his eyebrows dance up at the view. She’d pulled her long hair over one shoulder in a braid and had a pencil stuck behind her ear on the other side. Weaving between the tables, she made a beeline for Mac, crouching down next to him and resting a hand on his shoulder with a familiarity that spoke of more than just one meeting.

She said something to him rapidly in Italian and Jack found his eyebrows bouncing up when Mac pulled the paperclip from his mouth and replied shyly, but fluently. Because _of_ _course_ the kid spoke Italian. He couldn’t keep up with how many languages Mac knew. Then again, he might’ve just learned it in the last month, knowing he’d be heading this way.

The girl gestured back toward the café and Mac nodded, his smile showing his dimple as he looked up at her, squinting against the sun. He said something that clearly reassured her and her posture relaxed, her own smile equally as sunny. Mac flipped his sketch book closed and pushed to his feet, running a hand through his hair to push it away from his face.

The minute he turned, however, he caught sight of Jack and it was like watching someone get sucked under by a riptide.

Mac went pale, then flushed and he seemed to have to force himself to take a full breath. Jack sat completely still, his eyes on his partner, his smile soft and nonthreatening. He really wasn’t sure if Mac would approach…or turn and run.

He glanced at the girl and said something softly, nodding toward Jack.

The girl looked his way and Jack smiled, lifting a hand in a wave, hoping that Mac had said something nice and not just asked her to call the _policia_. She smiled slightly, looking a tad uncertain, but when Mac leaned closer, resting his hand on the small of her back in a reassuring gesture and spoke again, she nodded and walked back into the café.

Jack couldn’t help but watch her walk away, noting that Mac did the same. When she was out of sight, Mac made his way over to the small wrought iron table, dropping down into the empty seat next to Jack like he’d been planning on meeting him there all along.

“You know that’s in Italian,” Mac said, gesturing to the paper.

Jack just smiled. It was so good to hear his partner’s voice again—and not through a poorly connected pay phone line—that it didn’t even matter that Mac sounded a bit rough.

“And…unless you did some serious cramming over the last couple weeks, you can’t read Italian,” Mac continued, his blue eyes sparkling with humor.

“So, the waitress is pretty,” Jack deflected, still grinning.

Mac glanced away, his mouth relaxing helplessly into a smile. “She is,” he agreed. “And the cappuccino here is amazing.”

“Cappuccino, right,” Jack nodded, his grin widening. “You dog.”

“What?” Mac glanced back, the side of his mouth folding, his blue eyes dancing. “I like cappuccino.”

In that moment, the pretty waitress returned, two small porcelain cups on saucers balanced in her hands. She set one down in front of each of them, then straightened and smiled at Mac. Closer up, Jack could see that she had a few years on Mac—maybe late twenties, early thirties—but she was a knockout, no denying that.

“See?” Mac gestured toward the drinks. He grinned at Jack, then squinted up at the waitress. “Jack, this is Carina,” he said. “She’s a grad student, too.” Jack bounced his chin up, acknowledging the cover. “Carina, this is my Uncle Jack…uh, _questo è mio zio Jack._ ”

Jack’s eyebrows lifted, but he went with it, holding out a hand to take Carina’s. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said.

She smiled. “You…uh…visit Gus?”

Jack blinked, looking at Mac in response to Carina’s broken English. “Gus?”

“Angus doesn’t sound great in Italian, and I…didn’t feel like being MacGyver for a while,” Mac explained, cheeks slightly colored with embarrassment.

Jack looked back at Carina. “Visiting, yes,” he nodded.

Reassured, she smiled again, and Jack had to admit it was a smile worth staying in Rome for. She looked back at Mac and said something to him in Italian, to which he replied with a nod, and she headed back into the café.

“Their back-up machine is broken,” Mac explained. “They need me to fix it.”

Jack folded his lips down. “And how do they know you can do that?”

“I, uh…might’ve turbo-charged their main machine the other day,” Mac shrugged.

“Of course you did,” Jack grinned, sipping his cappuccino. It really _was_ amazing. “So, how’s grad school going?”

“Uh-uh,” Mac shook his head. “Me first. How’s Bozer? Has he been getting my emails? How about Riley? She still dating Billy—“

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, there, hoss. Stop strafing me,” Jack held up a hand. “Bozer is good. He’s been getting your emails, but…I think your whole one-way conversation tactic is wearing on him. You need to call him, bud.”

Mac looked contrite. “You’re right. I’ll call the house in the morning.”

“He’s not at the house,” Jack informed him, finishing his cappuccino and reaching for Mac’s since the kid hadn’t touched it. “He moved in with Leanna.”

Mac drew his head back. “When?”

“About a week after you left,” Jack informed him. “Said the house was too quiet without you there.”

Mac looked at the table, a shadow passing through his eyes. Jack simply watched him, waiting for the inevitable reaction. It felt good just to be around Mac again, breathing the same air. When he allowed himself to think back, it was almost inconceivable that there had been a time in his life when he was counting down the days until he would leave the kid.

A couple café patrons stood to leave the table next to them and the elderly gentleman nearest to Mac dropped his hat. Before it actually hit the ground, Mac reached out to catch it, then turned slightly so that he could hand it back.

“ _Ciao_ , Signor Bianchi,” Mac greeted, smiling.

The elderly man turned to take his proffered hat and returned the smile. “Why Gus, _grazie_ ,” he smiled. Glancing at Jack, he asked, “And is this the uncle you spoke of?”

Mac nodded. “Making sure I’m behaving myself.”

Bianchi turned to Jack. “You have a good boy here.”

“Don’t I know it,” Jack replied, with a nod.

“Signor Bianchi,” Mac entreated, pitching his voice low. “The farmacia refilled the Glacia this morning.”

“Indeed,” Bianchi replied, nodding sagely. He glanced over at Jack once more. “A very good boy.”

With a jaunty tug on the bill of his hat, Bianchi and his companion turned to leave and Mac rotated forward.

“So…uncle, huh?” Jack smirked.

Mac shrugged. “I borrowed the café phone for my last check-in. Had to give them a compelling reason aside from _my partner is a mother hen_.”

“What the hell is a Glacia?” Jack asked, having finished Mac’s cappuccino and finding himself feeling suddenly off-beat from his friend. He rubbed the palms of his hands against the top of his dark cargo pants, seeking balance.

“A strong mint,” Mac replied. “Bianchi smokes, but told his daughter that he quit. He uses them to cover up the scent.” Mac shrugged. “I could smell them on him a few days ago when we met and figured he’d like to know.”

“So, let me get this straight,” Jack sat back, tilting his head in observation of his friend. Mac’s blue eyes stayed locked on his, but Jack could tell that he was also tracking activity to their periphery, as was Jack. “You’ve been here a week and you’ve already found an apartment, fixed the local café owner’s cappuccino machine, have a gorgeous grad student ready to give you a helluva lot more than coffee, and saved an old man from his daughter’s wrath.”

Mac’s eyes clouded again. “How’d you know I found an apartment?”

“Mac.”

“You’ve been tracking me,” Mac concluded, his tone more hurt than accusatory.

Jack huffed. “You didn’t make it easy on me.” He lifted a hand and began to tick off fingers as he spoke. “Honduras—“

“There was a migrant work camp that needed aid,” Mac interjected.

“—some can-barely-find-it-on-the-map place called Saoluis in Brazil—“

“One of the guys from the camp was headed there next to help with Doctors Without Borders.”

“—Moracco—“

“Saw a sign for volunteers when I was in Brazil.”

“—Angola—“

“Read about a Green Peace movement there.”

“—Alexandria, Egypt—“

“Well, I mean. C’mon. It’s not like it was Cairo.”

“—and then Kathfreakinmandu. Where you landed in a hospital.”

“Yeah,” Mac looked down with a shrug. “Turns out I was kinda sick in Egypt but didn’t really know it until I landed in Nepal and they wouldn’t let me clear customs.”

“Seven places in four weeks, Mac,” Jack continued, shaking his head. “I don’t care how many humanitarian efforts you accomplished…you’re running, bud.”

Mac’s eyes flashed fire. “With good reason,” he challenged. “You’re chasing me.”

“I’m not chasing—“ Jack broke off, pitching his voice lower as he drew a few sets of eyes. “I’m not _chasing_ you, man. I’m keeping an eye on you.”

Mac leaned forward. “What for, Jack, huh? For my dad?”

Jack sat back. “That’s cold.”

“Please,” Mac scoffed, dropping heavy hands onto the table, the paperclip Jack had noticed earlier now between his fingers. He began to bend it as he continued, “I knew there was a reason you didn’t leave the Phoenix…I just didn’t figure you’d be helping him spy on me.”

“Mac,” Jack said, his voice flat with pain. Mac looked up, meeting his eyes, his fingers unceasing in their movement. “You listen up, pal, ‘cause I’m only going to say this once. I stayed so that I keep doing my job—protecting you. Watching over you. You needed space, I respect that. But you’re never going to be free of me. You got that?”

Mac swallowed, nodding.

“I mean, shoot, kid,” Jack shook his head, leaning forward, one arm balanced on the table. “You even wonder what happened to those guys tailing you when you left Moracco?”

Mac blinked. “That was you?”

“Well, not me _directly_. I just…know people.”

Mac smiled softly. “What about the guy in Alexandria?”

“He’s not going to bother anyone else,” Jack assured him.

Mac seemed to sag a bit. “I’m sorry, Jack. I jumped to conclusions. I was out of line.”

“Yeah, well,” Jack shifted, grimacing slightly. “Don’t get too apologetic. Just ‘cause I’m not working for your dad doesn’t mean he doesn’t know where you are.”

Mac closed his eyes. “I knew I stayed here too long.”

“Gus?” Carina’s voice floated toward them from the opened door of the café.

“Yeah, listen,” Mac said, pushing to his feet and hooking the strap to his leather satchel over his shoulder. He dropped the paperclip onto the table. It was in the shape of a pair of handcuffs. “Let me fix this machine for them and we’ll go back to my place.”

Jack nodded his agreement and followed Mac into the café, suppressing a grin as Mac tossed his hair out of his eyes. Jack hung back, watching as Mac talked with the café owner and his wife while Carina looked on. The kid’s sunny smile and quick hands seemed to set the trio instantly at ease and the wife was unabashedly flirting, if Mac’s blush was anything to go by. In minutes, he’d fixed the machine and was waving off their gratitude.

Carina stopped him at the door and tucked a folded up piece of paper into the front pocket of his jeans; Jack felt his grin split his face in half when Mac blushed harder. Carina smiled at both of them as Mac scrambled out through the door, playfully punching Jack on the shoulder.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Jack chuckled.

“You’re thinking it plenty loud.”

“I’m just happy for you, dude,” Jack promised. “She’s a ten. A helluva lot better than Nikki.”

Mac grimaced. “Thanks for the reminder.”

Jack followed his friend around the corner from the crowded plaza to an almost deserted, narrow side street. “Oh, like you need to be reminded of the girl who was okay with you being shot and nearly drowned just to keep her cover in place.”

“That was definitely a life lesson,” Mac agreed, taking a sharp left and sprinting up a flight of stairs that would have anyone with any sort of meat on their bones feeling claustrophobic. “Here’s me,” he said, stopping at the top and digging a key from his pocket.

Jack followed him inside. “Cozy.”

“I’m renting it from this painter guy,” Mac said, tossing his keys on the table. “He can’t paint anymore, so I think the view bothers him.” He nodded toward a set of narrow French doors.

It was small. A bed, a table with two chairs, a tiny kitchenette, and an ancient looking wardrobe. Mac crossed the room and opened the narrow French doors to a small balcony where he’d assembled another chair and table from what looked like apple crates and bicycle parts.

“How do you know he can’t paint anymore?” Jack asked, still letting his eyes trail around the small apartment and the little bits of Mac that were already showing up.

A map on top of the bed, complete with compass. A red Swiss Army Knife  on the table next to what was apparently a spare notebook and pencil set. Jack smiled sadly, remembering that he’d lost the one Jack gave him to those goons in Mexico. It didn’t seem right that he’d had to buy a new one.

“He couldn’t stop rubbing his hands,” Mac revealed. “I’m guessing a pretty advanced case of arthritis. And he has a significant hitch in his gait, so those stairs would be killer.”

Of course the kid noticed the way the man walked, Jack thought. He really did see everything.

“Bathroom is through there if you want to wash up,” Mac gestured, then dropped his satchel on the bed.

Jack headed to the bathroom and maneuvered his way around the toilet and minuscule sink, the shower no more than a drain in the floor with a pulley-system overhead faucet. Returning to the room, he saw that Mac had dragged one of the kitchen chairs out to the balcony and was sitting on his apple crate chair, two Peroni’s opened on his make-shift table.

“How about Riley?” Mac asked when Jack sat down, picking up where he’d left off.

“She’s good—still with Billy, and still at Phoenix,” Jack replied, cautious as he knew she was probably listening this very minute.

“Huh,” Mac sat back, sipping his beer.

“Huh, what?”

Mac shook his head. “It’s stupid, really. I don’t know. I guess…I guess I was picturing this…mass exodus or something. It’s not fair of me, at all, but….”

“You wanted to show your dad he had no control.”

Mac sipped his beer again. “Kinda, yeah.”

“It might sound backwards, bud, but…,” Jack sighed, “the reason we all stayed was because of you.”

Mac gave him a look. “You’re right, that does sound backwards.”

They were quiet a moment and Jack let the sounds and smells of Rome wash over him. Rich food, exhaust from the buses and taxis, spices from the market down and to the right of Mac’s place, the tang of the river, faint hints of lichen on the stone of the buildings around them. There was something almost intoxicating about the age of the city.

He glanced aside to take in the way Mac sat, all lanky grace and earnest gaze, reminding Jack what it was like to be young. There’d always been light all around the kid, even when he stood in the middle of darkness. But it seemed to beam from him in this moment, slipping from his pores and filling up the air around and between them.

It was, Jack realized, the first time in a long time he’d seen Mac at peace. It was almost enough to overshadow the utter exhaustion Jack had seen biting at the kid’s heels since he arrived.

“You shouldn’t go back,” Jack said quietly, not appreciating the weight of this truth until he heard the words in his own voice.

“What?” Mac looked over at him, surprised. “Back where?”

“Home,” Jack sighed, leaning forward, elbows on knees, and rubbed the back of his neck. “You shouldn’t go back home.”

Mac frowned, brows pulled low over his blue eyes. “What are you talking about, Jack?”

“Y’know, bud,” Jack shook his head, still caught up in his thoughts. “I thought I got it. I really did. I thought I understood.”

Mac was quiet, nervous energy shimmering from him as he listened.

“But…I didn’t, not really. The universe doesn’t just fold around stuff like what your dad did to you without leaving scars.”

Jack felt Mac shut down. He glanced to the side and saw the wall slide in place across his expression.

“Why are you really here, Jack?” Mac asked, his voice level.

Sitting up, Jack rubbed the flat of his hands down the sides of his face. “I’m after a bio weapon called Syntac XR.”

Mac didn’t move, clearly sensing there was more.

“Matty thinks it’s linked to Jonah Walsh.”

“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“Nope. Two French mercs, two German scientists, and they’re meeting up with some Italian scientist around some place called the, uh…,” Jack dug his cell phone from his cargo pants pocket and peered at the name, “Santi Marcellino, uh—“

“Santi Marcellino e Pietro ad Duas Lauros,” Mac supplied, the name rolling easily off his tongue.

“That’s the one.”

“Jack,” Mac shook his head. “Syntac XR is nasty business.”

“Oh, so it’s real, huh?”

Mac frowned, confused. “Why wouldn’t it be real?”

Jack shrugged, putting his phone away. “Ah, no reason. Just wondering if Oversight made it up to get you back.”

Mac stood up abruptly. “Dammit, I knew it.” He moved back into his small apartment, throwing his empty bottle into a recycle bin and grabbing another from the fridge.

Jack followed him, immediately on edge.

“I _knew_ it wasn’t just about you tracking me or him knowing where I am,” Mac practically growled. “ _I’m_ the mission.”

“No, Mac.”

“I am. You’re here to reinstate me!”

“ _No_ , Mac,” Jack insisted, stepping forward, his hands out as though he wanted to grab the kid, but he held off. “I’m not going to lie and tell you that wasn’t Oversight’s plan, but it’s _not_ why I’m here.”

“Damn him!” Mac shouted. “I mean, when is it going to be enough? He’s orchestrated my whole life! He’s not going to be happy until he’s orchestrated my death, too.”

“Now, wait, that’s not true,” Jack held up a hand, his brain immediately skipping over the word _death_ , because just…no. “He hasn’t orchestrated your whole life.”

Mac slammed the Peroni down on his small counter, beer splashing up the neck of the bottle and spilling over his hand. He paid no attention, pacing away from the small kitchen and toward the ancient wardrobe. He shoved his hands through his blond hair, curling them into fists before landing them on his hips like he wasn’t sure why they were still attached to his arms.

“ _Everything_ , Jack,” he barreled forward as if Jack hadn’t spoken. “I looked into it. He fast tracked my MIT application. He got me assigned to Peña in Explosive Ordinance.” He waved a hand toward Jack, “And you already heard him say he paired us up.”

“Kid, he had _no way_ of knowing what would come out of that,” Jack tried to break in.

“He knew about Nikki. He knew when I was in the hospital. Every. Damn time. He knew about Cairo, Jack. _Cairo_.”

Jack simply watched Mac pace, empathy leaving him feeling aged.

“Do you know why he left me? Huh?” Mac demanded. His breathing was off, his shoulders twitching as though forced to help his lungs expand.

“No, man,” Jack replied, softly. He had a decent guess, but he’d not heard Oversight’s reasons.

“He told me it was the only way he could…,” Mac swallowed hard, looking up at Jack, entire paragraphs held in his eyes, “only way he could stay with me. Watch over me.”

Jack winced inwardly. He didn’t want to think he had anything in common with Oversight, but…when it came to Mac, there might be a few things they saw eye-to-eye.

“He said he was protecting me from himself,” Mac went on, his voice tight, the words jittery as they caught against a wall of resistance and shredded inside of him. “He said every time he looked at me, he was reminded of my mom and it made him…it made him angry. Just _looking_ at me made him angry.” Mac paused, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’ve thought about it a lot, y’know? I’ve had time.”

Jack nodded, listening.

“And I…I want to forgive him. I do. I’d been looking for him for so long, I just…I wanted to do what you said,” Mac glanced at Jack, the blue of his eyes practically glowing in the shadows of the room, “I wanted to get to know my…my _dad_.”

He covered his mouth with his hand, fingers curling around his lips as if he were afraid of the words turning to ash if he let them escape. “But then…I think about how he said he was watching me. And how he’d _known_ I was looking for him. And he didn’t do anything.” Mac shook his head, the expression on his face, the pain in his eyes, cutting through Jack. “Nothing. Not one word.”

“I’m sorry, bud.”

Jack wanted to grab the kid up and hold him until all of his broken pieces fit back together again. He wanted to slam his fist into Oversight’s smug face. He wanted to scrap this mission and tell Oversight where he could shove it. He wanted to scoop up Mac, Bozer, and Riley and just disappear.

“Y’know, when I was growing up,” Mac said, bringing his chin up and wrapping his arms around his mid-section in a gesture of protection born of pure instinct. He stood as if the world were suddenly yawning wide around him and if he wasn’t careful, he’d tip over the edge and shatter at the bottom. “Harry told me to pay attention. All the time.”

So that’s who Jack had to thank. It figured.

“He used to tell me that he did the same thing with my dad. Pay attention. See what’s around you. The world will help you if you let it,” Mac sniffed, and Jack suddenly thought he looked breakable. “I know he said a lot, but those words…I remember him saying that over and over. _Pay attention_.” He sighed and turned to face the open doors, turning his body into a silhouette from Jack’s perspective. “And you know, I did. To everything.”

He braced his hands on the door frame, hanging his head. Jack was a tactile being—he comforted by touch, not by words. And right now he wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around his young partner. Show him that he wasn’t as alone as he sounded right now.

But he knew this was something Mac had to get out. The words had clearly been festering inside of him for weeks and all his running hadn’t made them any less true or any more bearable. 

“And it worked, too. Got me into MIT. Saved my ass in Afghanistan. Kept us alive through a ton of crazy shit in this job,” Mac said quietly. “But, damn. It’s hard to turn off. It just…it makes me tired.”

Jack found himself nodding. The kid _sounded_ tired. Weariness was stitched into every line of his body.

“And if I’m tired, I have to wonder how tired was my mom? Y’know? She was only like ten years older than I am now when she died. And without her…my dad, he…he stopped paying attention. I guess he just couldn’t anymore. Doesn’t matter how smart he is, not if he’s isn’t paying attention.”

“He’s not getting you back, Mac,” Jack asserted. “He doesn’t get to make one more decision for you. Not one more.”

“He already has,” Mac said on a sigh, then turned around and Jack saw eyes red-rimmed with pent-up emotion leveled on him. “He sent you after the Syntac.”

“Yeah, the Syntac, not you. I refused to bring you…back….”

And then Jack got it.

The fucking guy really was the smartest in the room. He _knew_ that if Jack went after the bio weapon he’d be compelled to connect with Mac and if he told Mac what he was after, the kid wouldn’t let him go alone.

Oversight won either way.

“Oh, that son of a bitch,” Jack muttered, rubbing the top of his head and turning away. “ _Dammit_.”

“It’s okay, Jack,” Mac said, the defeat in his voice saturating the room. “He’s been at this a long time. He knows how to manipulate me better than anyone.” Mac huffed. “Hell, he’s probably been tracking the Syntac and timing it until I got here to tell you about it.”

“No, no way,” Jack shook his head, wanting to deny that he’d been played that easily. “How’d he know that you’d head to Rome?”

Mac spread his arms wide. “This place. The painter guy? Old friend of Harry’s. Contacted me out of the blue and asked if I wanted to take him up on a few months in Rome. Seemed like a perfect opportunity.”

Jack shook his head. “I don’t…I don’t want to believe it.”

“He wanted to watch over me,” Mac sighed. “Guess he just stopped seeing me as his son and started seeing me as an asset longer ago than I realized.”

Jack thought about Oversight telling Bozer that hiring him kept Mac in line. He thought about how he and Mac been purposefully paired up. At this stage he wouldn’t put it past the guy to have Riley put into prison just so that they could access and spring her when they needed her.

“It’s almost easier just to let him win,” Mac continued, his deep voice sounding rather lifeless. “At least I’d be doing something…instead of just running.”

A trigger was pulled inside of Jack with that statement. This defeated tone wasn’t his friend, his partner, the kid who always figured out a solution to literally every predicament they’d found themselves in—even Cairo. This wasn’t _Mac_.

“Uh-uh,” Jack shook his head, stepping forward. He reached out and grabbed Mac by the arms. “No. Now, you cut that shit out.”

“What?” Mac’s eyes were cloudy with tears he’d been refusing to let fall.

“Is your dad an asshole? Yes. Has he been playing puppet master? Yes. But, that has nothing to do with _you_.”

Mac squirmed out of his grip and moved across the room. “What are you talking about? It’s got _everything_ to do with me.”

“No, see, that’s where you’re wrong,” Jack moved toward him again. “You’re a smart guy, Mac, but you _can_ be wrong.”

Mac frowned at him.

“You think your dad had any idea what he was getting himself into when he paired us up? Hell no. I can guarandamntee you that, based on the little conversation we had in the War Room before I left.”

Mac blinked, eyebrows going up.

“That was all you and me, bud. You want to get back at your dad? You want him to stop using you? You _live_ , man. You live your life. Your choices, your decisions.”

“Yeah, but…, Jack,” Mac shook his head opening his hands up in a helpless gesture. “You can’t go after the Syntac alone.”

“What the hell is it with everyone thinking I’m incapable all of a sudden?” Jack retorted, throwing up his hands. “I was running Ops behind enemy lines when you and Bozer were building a damn treehouse! I was jumping out of planes when you were blowing up football fields, kid. I _got this_. Okay? You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Sorry,” Mac said, contrite. He lifted a shoulder before crossing his arms over his chest once more. “I just…you’re the only one.”

“The only one what?” Jack asked, still wound up about his damaged ego.

“The only one who gives a damn about what happens to me.”

Jack deflated, resting his hands on his hips. “Aw, bud.” He shook his head, pulling in a slow breath. “If you could have been in that War Room yesterday…if you could have heard Bozer and Matty go to bat for you…and if you could have seen what Riley’s been doing to make sure I don’t go outta my mind worrying about you, man…. You’d know that isn’t true. You have family. You have people. And, we all love you, Mac. We _all_ give a damn about what happens to you. Forget your dad, man. You got _us_.”

Mac’s chin wavered, his lips folding down helplessly as he looked away. Jack saw a tear escape, tracking a course down Mac’s cheek to the corner of his mouth. And he couldn’t take it another second.

He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Mac, cupping the back of the kid’s head with his palm and pulling him close. For a fraction of a second, Mac resisted, holding himself tense. But then he seemed to melt against Jack, bringing his arms up to tuck fists into the back of Jack’s shirt.

“I got you, kid,” Jack said quietly, keeping his hand at the back of Mac’s head. “I got you.”

Mac didn’t make a sound, but Jack felt him tremble, tears held close for a month soaking Jack’s shoulder. His back shuddered with the force of his breathing.

“Man, I know this hurts. I get it, I do. I know it’s wrapping fingers around your throat and tightening its grip so tight you want to stop breathing just to make it end,” Jack paused, exhaling slowly as he kept hold of his young partner. He was dangerously close to confessing a truth about his own minimal coping mechanisms. “But you’re gonna be okay. I promise you.”

It took several minutes, but eventually Mac seemed to tap out, releasing Jack’s shirt and stepping back. He stumbled a little, then sat heavily on the bed.

“Thanks, Jack,” he said, coughing into the crook of his elbow.

“That sounds healthy,” Jack commented, frowning.

Mac shrugged. “Guess I’m not quite over that lung thing from Nepal,” he allowed. “Hasn’t really slowed me down much here, though.”

“Yeah, so I noticed,” Jack smiled sitting next to him as Mac dried his face with the collar of his T-shirt like a ten year old. “You want to grab some food before I go take out these bad guys?”

“Look, Jack,” Mac cleared his throat, turning sideways to face him. “I get it, you’re a bad ass, and I one hundred percent believe you’ll take these guys out, but Syntec is nothing to screw around with.”

“Yeah, Oversight said it was bad news—aerosol-based paralytic agent, blindness, burning and blistering. Zero fun.”

“It’s not just a paralytic,” Mac shook his head. “It…it basically interrupts the brain’s neurological processes. So, for example, it doesn’t actually cause blindness, it disrupts the pathways to the ocular nerve. So your eyes still work the same, you just _think_ you’re blind. You can’t see anything, but your brain is actually cataloging everything you’re looking at.”

“Holy shit,” Jack frowned.

“It’s too new to know long-term effects,” Mac shook his head. “The other thing is that it damages the thalamus in the brain and causes central pain syndrome—where the victim becomes hypersensitive to stimuli.”

“Wait, I’ve heard of that—where you basically can’t stand being touched, right?”

Mac nodded. “Yeah, that’s one of the reasons it’s thought to cause death in the old or young.”

“I’m going to hate myself for asking this, but…what’s the other reason?”

Mac grimaced, “Respiratory distress. If it’s inhaled, it can basically burn the inside of the lungs and cause them to swell until the victim can suffocate if not treated in time. But…there haven’t been that many cases to know how quickly or how often that happens.”

“Dude, Oversight didn’t even know that much—and he had files on the stuff,” Jack remarked, impressed.

“What can I say,” Mac shrugged, tapping on the side of his head. “I got a bunch of filing cabinets up here.”

“Well, sure, if you’ve been trained to pay attention since you were five years old,” Jack remarked.

Mac gave him a sad smile. They sat quietly for a moment, the city providing a backdrop of sound. Jack couldn’t get over how tired his friend suddenly looked. The constant moving, the pretending, the hiding from the truth—it had taken a toll.

“How much sleep have you gotten since you left?” Jack asked.

Mac blinked, surprised. “The usual amount,” he replied a bit lamely.

“Uh-huh,” Jack nodded, pressing his hands against his knees and pushing to his feet. “Which is to say, you’ve slept like crap.”

Mac lifted a shoulder. “I’m good, Jack. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Kid, I’ve been worrying about you since I realized you were the slowest EoD tech in the desert,” Jack grinned. “Having you be half the world away from me only makes it worse.”

“Well,” Mac sighed, resting his hands on his knees. “You don’t have to worry about that anymore. I’m coming back with you.”

Jack shook his head. “No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am,” Mac stood up. “You said it yourself, I have to confront my dad.”

“If what you got out of all that was me telling you to confront your dad, then you _weren’t_ paying attention,” Jack scolded. “You choose, Mac. You don’t run, you don’t hide. You _choose_.”

Mac frowned, his voice dropping an octave. “I am. I’m _choosing_ to help you get the Syntac and then going back with you.”

Jack just stared at Mac, as though really seeing him for the first time. “Your old man really did a number on you, didn’t he?”

Mac drew back. “What?”

“Even when you think you’re making your own choices…he was the one to give you the only options.”

Mac blinked as though dazed. He took a step back, wrapping his arms around his middle once more. Jack kept watching him, seeing layers peel back before his eyes.

The determined, slightly arrogant kid he met in the barracks in Kabul. The focused, brave EoD tech who saved his life. The damaged, resilient Vet who met becoming a spy head-on. The intelligent, confident operative who dealt with betrayal and pain like someone twice his age. The wounded, breakable kid who discovered he’d been viewing his entire life through a smoke-screen.

“Mac,” Jack said softly, one hand up, approaching his partner as if he were gentling a skittish horse. “You’re not coming with me. For the Syntac or back to L.A. And it’s not because I don’t want you to, man, because God help me, I do.”

Mac just stared at him.

“It’s because I’m watching out for you—always. And I won’t let you walk into this trap he’s laid out for you just because your big heart won’t let you say no.”

“But, Jack—“

“I’ll be fine, Mac.” Jack smiled at him. “Right now, I’m more worried about you than I am about any bio weapon.”

“You need me,” Mac argued.

“I’ll always need you,” Jack nodded. “But not for this. Not _like_ this. Not when you’re going to be wondering if every choice you make you’re making because _he_ wanted you to. Not when your gut tells you to go right but you go left because you’re afraid of being predictable.” Jack smiled sadly, shaking his head. “Not when that little voice in your head isn’t your own.”

Mac’s eyes shone with tears. “But what if something happens to you?” He sniffed, holding himself tense as Jack took a step forward. “What if something happens that I could have prevented?”

Jack rested a hand on Mac’s shoulder, feeling the slight tremble there. “Whatever happens to me, it’s not your fault, okay? None of it. I am a big boy, Mac. I’m making my own decisions. I could walk away, right now.”

Mac scoffed.

“No, really. I could. I pretty much torched a big-assed bridge when I left the Phoenix yesterday. I doubt it would surprise one person if I said you and I were going to open our own business—Mac & Dalton’s Humanitarian Aid and Protection Services.” He grinned, gesturing across the air with his hand as though visualizing the sign.

Mac chuffed, blinking back tears.

“I could tell your old man to shove it where the sun don’t shine. I’m not going to, but I could, and I’d live happy,” Jack continued. “So, me going after this Syntac? That’s all _my_ choice. And no matter what happens, it’s not your fault.”

“Dalton & Mac. It has a better ring to it,” Mac sniffed.

Jack squeezed Mac’s shoulder. “Now, are you going to point me in the direction of some good grub, or not?”

“When do you have to try to intercept the Syntac?” Mac asked.

Jack consulted his watch. “2100, so…in about four hours.”

Mac narrowed his eyes, his head tilting in a way Jack had come to recognize as his brain kicking into high gear. “There’s an entrance to the catacombs in the Santi Marcellino e Pietro ad Duas Lauros.”

“Catacombs?” Jack’s eyebrows bounced up.

Mac nodded, turning to the map on his bed and rotating it so that Jack could see. “There are something like forty different catacombs under Rome, and only five of them are open to the public.” He pointed to a spot on the map. “This is where we are, and this? This is Santi Marcellino e Pietro ad Duas Lauros. See all this stuff here? All of that is miles and miles of catacombs.”

“This is some real Indiana Jones shit, right here.”

Mac frowned. “When was Indy in the catacombs?”

“What?” Jack straightened up. “ _Last Crusade_ , dude. Remember the rats?”

Mac rolled his eyes. “Oh, that. They were way off—there aren’t any catacombs under Venice.”

“Whatever. It was cool as hell…if not a little creepy,” Jack waggled his hand in a _so-so_ manner. “What’s the deal with these catacombs?”

“Well, if you’re supposed to intercept the Syntac, it doesn’t make sense that they’re doing an exchange like that some place as public as Santi Marcellino e Pietro ad Duas Lauros.”

Jack grimaced slightly. “Well, the thing is….”

“Uh-oh,” Mac sat back on his heels. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Reason this popped up on our radar, the mercs and these German dudes are hooking up with some Italian scientist so that they can turn Syntac into a water-soluble agent.”

An entire chapter of emotions crossed Mac’s face in less than a second. Jack watched the kid’s eyes dart back and forth, focused on nothing, as he tracked the outcomes of multiple scenarios in a virtual Choose Your Own Adventure that existed solely in Mac’s head.

It amazed him, as always, how brilliant this kid was.

“Okay, look,” Mac said, shoulders shifting as he stepped cleanly into spy-mode. “You are going to need to get there first. This meeting isn’t to hand over the weapon, it can’t be. They’ll be hooking up with the Italian scientist—like a job interview at best—and relocating. The catacombs give them the perfect way to connect, test each other out, and get out of the city undetected.”

Jack tapped his ear piece. “Riley, you reading me?”

 _“Loud and clear, Jack,”_ Riley replied in a tone that told him she hadn’t stopped listening in since he landed.

“Go on, Mac,” Jack nodded.

Mac flipped the map over and folded it to show a labyrinth of brown lines that looked super-imposed under the city streets. “You get here,” he pointed to a place south of Santi Marcellino e Pietro ad Duas Lauros, “and set up a choke point. You can grab the Italian guy and use him to get the mercs to hand over the Syntac.”

 _“Can’t set up a choke point with just one person,”_ Riley pointed out.

Jack looked at Mac, trying to figure out a way to convey Riley’s reaction without triggering Mac’s temper.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Mac said, eyes darting to Jack’s ear indicating he was talking to both of them. “I’m not making an argument for me coming along.”

“You sure about that?”

“That’s why you’re going early—before your intel says the Italian guy is showing up. I’ll show you how to make a snare with some climbing rope and carabineers we can pick up at a store in the market, and you can rig up some distractions. You cut off all other pathways except one,” Mac straightened up, folding his arms across his middle in a much more relaxed posture than before.

“Done and done,” Jack grinned.

 _“Jack…,”_ Riley warned.

“Ri, pull up schematics of the Roman catacombs,” Jack instructed. “Map all possible routes and send them to my phone.”

“You might not be able to get a signal down there,” Mac warned. “Make sure you download them first.”

 _“He’s being way too chill about this,”_ Riley commented. _“He’s planning something.”_

“You’re not planning on following me the minute I leave this apartment, are you?” Jack asked.

Mac stood utterly still for long enough Jack knew he’d tapped right into the kid’s scheme.

“Promise me you’ll stay right here, Mac,” Jack entreated, pointing at the apartment floor.

“Whose choice will that be?” Mac challenged. “Mine? Or yours?”

Jack sighed. This was a slippery slope. Damn Oversight.

“This is your Op, Jack,” Mac relented. “I won’t screw it up. But if you don’t meet me at the café at 0500 tomorrow, I make no promises.”

 _“Seems fair,”_ Riley commented.

Jack held out his hand. “Deal.” Mac took it and Jack gripped hard, pulling Mac into a one-armed hug. “Don’t forget what I said, Angus,” he told him quietly, feeling Mac tense up against him. “You live _your_ life, man. Your choices, your way. Don’t question the influence, don’t question your brilliance. Your _heart_. He can’t take any of that from you. You got me?”

“I got you,” Mac choked out, tightening his grip on Jack’s hand a moment before he stepped back.

“Now, where’s that shop with all the supplies I’m going to MacGyver into catacomb traps?”

Mac didn’t stop talking until Jack was fully loaded with a backpack full of rope, carabineers, and sparklers. He talked Jack through the rope ties, the locations for the choke points, the timing of lighting the sparklers to dazzle their eyes. He talked so long and so much by the time Jack was ready to head to the Santi Marcellino e Pietro ad Duas Lauros he was hoarse.

“You have your lighter?” Mac asked as Jack shouldered his backpack.

Jack patted the pocket of his TAC vest. “Don’t leave home without it,” he grinned.

“And you downloaded the maps?”

“Yes, I’ve got everything, kid. I swear. Go back to your apartment,” Jack ordered, a hand on Mac’s shoulder. “Wait until 0500, then meet me at the café.”

“You better be there,” Mac rasped, clearing his throat. “I mean it.”

“I won’t let you down, brother.”

“Just…take care of yourself, Jack,” Mac stared at him as though trying to memorize every crease and laugh line on his face. “Please.”

Jack swallowed, grabbing the kid close for another tight, one-armed hug. “It’s gonna be fine,” he said, grinning with what he hoped was reassurance. “Like Beggar’s Canyon—“

“—back home,” Mac finished the quote, chuckling. “All right, get going, or you’ll run into the next wave of tourists.”

Jack nodded, tossing Mac a quick salute and headed for the catacomb entrance.

He didn’t look back.


	3. Chapter 3

 

**Rome, Italy  
Mac’s Apartment**

**0430**

**_-Mac-_ **

Jack had been gone for six hours.

When Mac returned to his apartment—as he’d promised—he couldn’t sit still for more than two minutes at first. He started a text to Riley ten different times, then erased it. He didn’t want to distract her. He started an email to Bozer, then deleted it. What was he going to say that would make Bozer feel less abandoned by his best friend?

After two restless hours pacing around his apartment—which seemed to be getting increasingly smaller—he finally collapsed on his bed, flopping back to stare up at a cracked, water-stained ceiling, his breath rattling a bit in his chest as his lungs worked overtime. He was certain that he wasn’t going to be able to sleep until he knew that Jack was safe, but passing out from hyperventilating with worry wasn’t ideal either.

Mac focused on his breathing, trying to keep the black dots at the edges of his vision at bay. And, if he were honest, keep himself from breaking out of his apartment and running for the catacombs. He didn’t register falling over the edge of consciousness, his exhausted biology winning a battle over his anxious mind.

But his sleep was nowhere near restful. Distorted images assaulted him, every one of the _what if_ scenarios he’d mentally played through before Jack left coming to life in Technicolor behind his closed lids. He surged to awareness with a desperate grab for air, sitting up, legs hanging over the edge of the bed, the room spinning slightly around him.

Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, Mac shoved his hands through his hair, the rough sound of his breath echoing slightly in the silent room.

He couldn’t do this. Not _this_ , not to Jack. Fuck his dad and his mental manipulation—his _partner_ was out there, alone, facing down four hostiles. Jack would have _never_ let Mac go on this Op alone. No matter who he thought might be pulling his strings.

“My choice, Jack,” Mac muttered, rising and grabbing his leather satchel.

He stuffed his map, compass, two bottles of water, and med kit—a   parting gift he’d given himself when he’d turned in his Phoenix credentials before leaving for Honduras—inside. He didn’t own a flashlight, but his cell phone was fully charged and there was a light there that he could cope with if he needed to until he met up with Jack.

Changing quickly into a long-sleeved grey Henley and slipping his Swiss Army Knife into his jeans pocket, Mac cast his eyes once more around the apartment. He caught sight of his sketch book and pencil, a paperclip sticking out of the spiral binding. On impulse, he worked it loose and stuck it in his pocket as well.

Just as he was about to leave the apartment, he felt his phone buzz inside his satchel with an incoming call.

“Hello?”

_“Mac!”_

“Boze?!” He did a quick time calculation—it was around 1800 the previous night.

 _“It worked,”_ he heard Bozer shout to someone before returning to the phone, _“Mac, listen—“_

“Bozer, I am so sorry I never called you,” Mac broke in, a flood of emotion hitting him at the sound of his friend’s voice. Bozer had been through a lot with him—had known him before his dad ghosted on him. Bozer knew him before he was _Mac_ , and yet he’d all-but abandoned him. “I was being a jerk. I wasn’t thinking about—“

 _“Dude, it’s okay,”_ Bozer interrupted. _“You know it’s impossible for me to stay mad at you.”_

“Yeah, but I should have—“

 _“Mac, none of that matters now,”_ Bozer cut him off. _“Riley hasn’t been able to reach Jack for over two hours.”_

Mac went cold. “What do you mean, she can’t reach him?” He was already moving out of his apartment and down the dark stairs toward the narrow alleyway.

 _“The comm went down and his cell is dark—no blip on the radar tracking his sim card or anything,”_ Bozer said. _“Riley said you warned this could happen, but he should have checked in by now.”_

“Did she pick up if he’d set up the choke point?” Mac asked, making his way toward the café. He had an idea.

_“He had, but no word on if it worked.”_

“Why’d you wait so long to call me?” Mac demanded, sprinting across the empty plaza toward the café.

 _“We, uh…,”_ Bozer hedged, and Mac skidded to a stop, listening, needing to know. _“We weren’t sure you would answer.”_

“Dude, Jack’s in trouble. There’s no question,” Mac snapped.

 _“It was your dad’s idea,”_ Bozer confessed quietly. _“We were trying to find a way around it.”_

Mac went cold once again. He knew it was scientifically impossible for his body cool so rapidly, but he felt himself shiver from the inside out.

“Thanks, Boze,” he said quietly, running up the stairs toward the café. The door was locked, but the lights were on inside. “I’m going after him.”

_“How?”_

“Uh…I have an idea, but…you’re not going to like it.”

 _“Just…don’t die, okay?”_ Bozer entreated. _“You can’t show up your dad if you’re dead.”_

“Point taken,” Mac smiled into the phone. “I’ll call you back.”

He tucked his phone into his back pocket and knocked on the glass. He saw Stefano, the owner, wiping down the counter while his wife, Stella, stocked the pastries. They both looked up at his knock. Stefano smiled, waved, and came around to unlock the door.

“ _Buongiorno_ , Gus,” Stefano greeted. “ _Carina non è ancora in questa mattina_.”

Mac smiled, replying in Italian, “ _Buongiorno_ , Stefano. I’m not looking for Carina.” He noted Stella’s frown at this news. It was clear they were both fond of the grad student, and saw a match there. Hedging carefully, Mac continued, “I’ll see her later today. Right now, I was wondering if I could borrow some things from your store room? For a…project.”

“Ah, _sì_ ,” Stefano waved him inside and Mac smiled his thanks.

Slipping into the storeroom, he grabbed the headlamp he’d noticed when he was fixing the cappuccino machine the earlier in the week. He also grabbed a handful of glow sticks. Holding them up he asked Stefano if he minded and assured the man he would replace the glow sticks. Stefano waved him off.

“What time do prayers start at Santi Marcellino e Pietro ad Duas Lauros?” he asked.

Stefano looked to Stella, who lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “Now,” they both told him.

“ _Grazie_ ,” he smiled. That meant the building would be open, but the entrance to the catacombs would not yet be accessible by tourists. “Tell Carina I’ll see her later?”

Slipping the head lamp and glow sticks into his satchel, he took off back across the plaza toward the closest bus stop. The sky was just beginning to brighten with the coming dawn, the edges of navy blue turning gold and teal, clouds crowding out the sunlight along the horizon. The city was waking up with early morning business people grabbing coffee and papers, flagging taxis, stepping on to their usual bus.

Mac stood, gripping the overhead rail, eyes on the front window of his bus, despite the fact that there were plenty of seats. He saw his stop approaching and hit the button positioned at eye-level, nodding to the driver as he swung to the ground, heading off at a brisk walk toward the Santi Marcellino e Pietro ad Duas Lauros. He could hear the low chant of prayers in the front of the chapel as he entered, slipping around behind the rope that blocked entry to the public.

Moving as silently as possible, he found the tourist entrance to the catacombs and headed down the narrow, worn stone steps. The air grew increasingly cooler the further down he went, smelling damp, but dry. Not like mildew. Lights had been positioned along the narrow corridor, guiding tourists along a safe pathway toward the sarcophagi of Christian martyrs like Marcellinus and Saint Peter—who were supposedly buried in these particular catacombs.

Mac’s eyes tracked the plaques and markers, in both Italian and English, to appeal to the tourists, laying out the path along the stone walls. Soon, the lights began to taper and the walls turned from stone to skulls, hundreds and hundreds of skulls paving the way to the skeletal remains of two monks guarding a door that was closed off to the public. Mac pulled his map out of his satchel to confirm what the map in his head already knew: he was on the right path.

Testing the door, he was relieved to find it unlocked this early in the morning. Shouldering it wide enough to slip through, he emerged on the other side into complete darkness. Once he shut the door behind him, he couldn’t even see his hand in front of his face.

His breath began to speed up as clumsy fingers scrambled for his satchel and he was able to pull the headlamp free. As he tried to find the power switch by touch, he closed his eyes, focusing on calming his breathing.

“It’s just dark. Your environment doesn’t change with the absence of light,” he reminded himself of Harry’s words when he’d confessed his fear at twelve. It was only partially working. “It’s just dark…underneath an ancient city…surrounded by human remains….”

He found the switch and turned the headlamp on, jerking back in startled fear when the light hit a wall of aged skulls.

“Easy, MacGyver,” he admonished himself. “Just a bunch of old bones.”

Pulling the headlamp on so that the beam shone from the center of his forehead, he took a slow breath. If he’d calculated correctly, he’d be approaching from behind where they’d planned Jack’s choke point. He started down one of the many areas that hadn’t been set up for tourists to visit—meaning while it had been excavated, it wasn’t lit, wasn’t cleared, and wasn’t all that safe.

The miles of catacombs became a labyrinth beneath the city and it was entirely possible to become so lost that joining the many souls trapped here wasn’t out of the question. Mac continued forward, trying not to touch the skull-covered walls, relieved when the skulls gave way to stone once more. The air was still easily breathable, but the dirt kicked up by his footsteps ticked his raw throat and he paused a few times to cough into his shoulder, not wanting to disturb the almost-complete silence.

Periodically, he heard the city above him—traffic, the sound of prayers being sung, the metro. But as he continued forward, going deeper into the dark, the silence grew until it was practically beating against ears all-too accustomed to the noise of the modern world.

It was like traveling back in time.

Once in a while, he stumbled across stone shelves carved into the wall—some empty, some with excavated human remains wrapped in decaying fibers that had once been burial clothes. A few sarcophagi had been pulled from the wall and were left, empty, slanted across the path, forcing Mac to climb over them to continue forward.

The already cool air chilled as he walked further in the dark, causing Mac’s exhale to dance like a cloud in the light from his headlamp. After a few more minutes of walking, he picked up the scent of something other than decay and dust: sulfur.

“Sparklers,” he whispered, remembering their plan to funnel the route of the mercs.

Slowing down, he began scanning the route for any sign of Jack—scuffs in the dirt, broken skulls on the walls, anything. He nearly walked right into a web of rope—tied perfectly according to his directions.

The choke point. Jack had been here a few hours ago.

Untying the rope, he piled it off to the side, tipping the beam of his headlight down to still be able to see but not draw as much immediate attention to himself. The tunnel widened into what appeared to be two side rooms, almost making a shape of a cross. Each seemed to be excavated tombs—one appeared empty, the other had stone shelves filled with skeletal remains.

The dirt floor was a mess of footprints and, Mac saw as he crouched low to examine, drops of blood. Not enough to make him immediately panic, but enough to be evidence of a struggle. He’d bet money Jack had been here, confronted the mercs, and had paid for it.

“So, where are you now?” Mac whispered, scanning the chamber once more.

He stood, making his way further down the path, eyes and light on the footprints, blood drops, and bone fragments from where the fight had landed someone against the skull-lined walls. Twice more the path split off, both times to another path in the maze rather than a room. After seeing the undisturbed pathway, Mac backtracked and followed another course, trying desperately to remember how many turns and in which direction so that he could get them back.

Suddenly, Mac heard a voice.

It was distant, but unmistakable in the utter quiet. French accent, speaking English. He glanced to either side and saw another small alcove, this one with two sarcophagi situated at different points. He shut off his light and made his way as quietly as possible into the small, stone chamber, feeling his way toward the stone structures.

Just then he detected another scent—this one triggering an instant flood of warmth and relief in his system: Old Spice, gunpowder, and leather.

 _Jack_.

Crouching down between what felt like a sarcophagus and a stone wall, Mac held his breath, waiting as the voice drew closer, listening to the man talk about a sum of money and meeting a deadline. Light joined the voice and Mac drew his body closer to the ground. Another voice responded to the first, this one speaking in French and agreeing. They moved down another passageway, the light growing dimmer, voices fading until it was quiet once more.

“Jack?” Mac called out in a stage whisper, turning his head lamp back on and darting his eyes around the empty stone sarcophagus and trying to find his friend. “Where are you?”

Silence was his only reply; Mac began to panic.

Though he’d been on his own, he hadn’t felt _alone_ one time over this past month; somehow he’d always known Jack was phone call away and would be next to him in a heartbeat if he asked. But in this moment, when Jack didn’t answer him, and darkness was pressing against him with an almost physical presence, Mac felt suddenly, terrifyingly _alone_.

“Jack?” He called softly again, scanning the tomb-like area with the beam from his headlamp for something that wasn’t dust and bone.

A low groan met his ears and Mac scrambled toward it. He saw Jack’s black-clad leg first, tucked up inside one of the burial shelves. Mac went to his knees, eyes on his friend’s body. Jack had been stuffed into the wall, handcuffs digging into his wrists, mouth gagged, legs slightly akimbo as he was too tall for the space. The light from Mac’s headlamp hit Jack’s face and he saw bruises along his cheekbone, surrounding his left eye, with blood matting his short hair and painting the side of his face a garish red.

“Hey, Jack,” Mac reached gently for the cloth gag, pulling it from his partner’s mouth, wincing as Jack’s split lower lip bounced free. “Easy, big guy.”

Jack groaned again, blinking his eyes open against the blinding light of Mac’s headlamp. Mac pulled it off and set it on the burial shelf above him so that the tomb-like room was somewhat illuminated. Thinking quickly, he dug the paperclip from his pocket as Jack became more aware.

“Mac?” Jack rasped, groggily as Mac began to pick the lock of the handcuffs. “That you, bud?”

The cuffs popped loose and Mac grimaced as the raw, red bracelets they left behind.

“It’s me,” Mac nodded, reaching for Jack’s shoulder. “C’mere,” he grunted, rolling the man toward him in a bit of a hug as he eased him out of the shelf.

Jack’s legs _thunked_ against the ground, limp and uncooperative. Mac pulled Jack against him, wrapping one arm around Jack’s head to protect it from further damage as he helped him lean against the wall next to the shelf where he’d been, more or less, buried alive. Mac winced when he saw Jack was actually inclined on several time-browned skulls, but decided not to draw the other man’s attention to that particular fact.

“Dude,” Jack moaned slightly, reaching one hand up to cup the side of Mac’s face, the other pressing against the wound on his own head. “I take back everything I said about you not coming with me. I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my whole life.”

Mac grinned, balancing on the balls of his feet as he crouched in front of Jack. “Wookie life debts go both ways, man.”

Jack’s smile folded the skin next to his eyes, dried blood flaking in the creases. “How’d you find me?”

“Well, you missed our coffee date,” Mac replied, digging into his satchel for the first aid kit and water. “I mean, a guy takes off for _one month_ and you think it’s cool to stand him up.” He twisted open the top of the water bottle and handed it to Jack. “I see how you are.”

“It’s these French dudes, man,” Jack gasped as he swallowed half the bottle. He rinsed blood out of his mouth and spat to the side. “They’re pretty persuasive.”

Mac took the water and wet a square of gauze, pressing it gently against Jack’s head. “This looks nasty, Jack.”

The gash was deep, and at least two inches long. It would need stitches, but until they got out of there, Mac would have to make due with butterfly bandages.

“Don’t feel too great either,” Jack commented, closing his eyes. “Man, I did everything you said, but…there were more than we thought.”

“More than four?”

Jack nodded, then winced as Mac continued to clean out the cut with iodine. “I counted six mercs. And that’s not the biggest problem.”

“They already made the trade?” Mac guessed.

Jack shook his head, grimacing. “They knew I was coming.”

Mac frowned. “So, Phoenix has a mole.”

“Phoenix has a mole.”

“Is that why you shut down your comms?” Mac asked.

Jack groaned and took another drink of water. “Nah, had me some help in that department,” he replied. “They surprised me, took out my light and my phone, dug my friggin’ comms from my damn ear, and then…went to town.” He frowned. “Not sure why they didn’t just kill me.”

“Why waste a bullet when dying buried alive in the catacombs is just as effective?” Mac supposed. “Not to mention terrifying,” he muttered, tending to Jack’s wound.

“One of them said multiple times that no one was coming for me,” Jack remembered, his brows furrowed. Without saying a word, Mac smoothed his thumb over the folded skin both to soothe his partner and make bandaging the cut manageable. “Pisses me off they knew I was on my own.”

“Any other wounds I should know about?” Mac asked after he’d applied butterfly bandages to the widest part of the scalp laceration.

“Just some cracked ribs. Bruises. The usual,” Jack shrugged. “I’ll live.” He looked around him. “Well, I will now that I’m not set to become a permanent resident next to Saint Peter.” He met Mac’s eyes. “Seriously, dude, you feel a tremor in the Force or something?”

“Bozer called me,” Mac confessed, resting a bent arm across one knee. “Said it was my dad’s idea to send me after you when your comms went down.”

Jack studied him for a long moment. “I’m sorry, Mac.”

“Jack,” Mac dropped his chin, leveling his eyes on his friend. He _needed_ Jack to know this. “It doesn’t matter whose idea it is—if you’re in trouble, I’m there.”

“You go kaboom, I go kaboom, yeah?”

Mac grinned. “Yeah.”

Jack smiled and Mac saw the warmth in it hit his friend’s dark eyes.

“So, what’s the plan?”

Mac sighed. “Well, I hadn’t really thought much past… _find Jack_.” He looked over his shoulder. “But I heard a couple of our mercenary friends saying something about a deadline and a money exchange.”

“Wait, you speak French?” Jack exclaimed.

“You don’t?” Mac teased.

Jack shook his head. “You’re never gonna stop surprising me, kid.” He sighed, rubbing gingerly at the side of his head.

Mac winced in sympathy; he had to be nursing one mother of a headache. “How’s the pain?”

“On a scale from one to migraine, we’re at sunglasses and Advil,” Jack muttered, squinting up at him. “And occasionally there’s two of you.”

Mac felt his brows pulled tight across the bridge of his nose. He dug back into his satchel and found some pain pills in the first aid kit.

“Take these,” he ordered, waiting until Jack swallowed with another large gulp of water. “It’s like spitting on a forest fire, I know, but—“

“It’s something,” Jack sighed, closing his eyes and resting his head back against one of the skulls. “They took my phone, which had all Riley’s maps on it. And even with your memory, this place is like Pans Labyrinth. So…way I see it, we’ve got two choices: get out and get word to Matty, or try to find these bastards in the world’s biggest underground maze.”

“I’m gonna go with Door Number One,” Mac replied. “Especially with you looking like you went a few rounds with Apollo Creed.”

“I agree—gotta play this one smart,” Jack nodded, reaching up a hand for Mac to help him to his feet. Once there, he wavered a bit until the world settled around him. “It’s darker than shit in here. I know Bozer told you to look for me but, how’d you actually _find_ me?”

Mac shrugged. “I just came in the back way from our plan and…kept walking.”

“In the dark.”

“Well, I had that headlamp, and I, uh…I smelled your aftershave,” Mac confessed.

“You smelled my….”

Mac grabbed his satchel and tucked the extra bottle of water back inside. “When everything smells like dirt, Old Spice kinda stands out.”

“Uh-huh,” Jack eyed him as he grabbed the headlamp. “Whatever you say, Daredevil.”

Putting it back in place, Mac motioned toward the tunnel. “You ready to get back out in the sunshine, or what?”

“You just want to get back to that waitress,” Jack teased, resting a hand on Mac’s shoulder as the younger man led the way. “Not that I blame you, man. She’s a hottie.”

“I’d rather make sure you didn’t crack your skull first,” Mac countered.

“Dude, don’t say _skull_ in here too loudly,” Jack complained, shuddering so that Mac felt it through his grip. “You think they put the actual _heads_ on the wall, or they waited until all the, like…flesh and stuff rots off?”

Mac shook his head, huffing a small laugh. He’d missed this. Missed _Jack_. Missed feeling that sense of purpose and belonging he had around the older man almost from the day they met.

“Well, actually, since most Christians and Jews belonged to the lower classes or were slaves, they usually lacked the resources to buy land for burial purposes,” Mac said, leading Jack down the tunnel he had followed, and hoped it wasn’t the one the French mercenaries had traversed. “So, they built these networks of tunnels on the outskirts of Rome. Over different centuries, they’d dig up corpses, process the bones and the priest would bless them as they put them in various designs.”

“You’re like a walking Wikipedia,” Jack muttered, tightening his grip on Mac’s shoulder as he stumbled over the uneven ground. He shivered again. “Is it me, or is it a helluva lot colder in the dark?”

“Considering we’re about sixty feet below the surface—“

“Y’know what? I’m good,” Jack patted his shoulder.

Mac pulled to an abrupt halt, voices reaching his ear. “You hear that?”

“Kid, there’s a little man with a pickax inside my head,” Jack complained, his drawl pronounced enough Mac knew the man was hurting. “I can barely hear you.”

“Voices,” Mac said, tilting his head to better pick up the sound along the odd acoustics. “Headed this way.”

“They took my weapons,” Jack reported through clenched teeth. “We can’t fight ‘em off like this.”

“Go back,” Mac turned, darting his head to the side when Jack hissed in pain as the light hit his eyes. “I saw another tunnel we can duck into.”

They rotated as one, Jack moving close enough to Mac that he didn’t need to hold onto his shoulder. After a few paces, they found the side tunnel, heading deeper until they found another chamber—this one larger and not quite as excavated—and more tunnels branching off in different directions. One wall of the chamber had collapsed inward and water was seeping through the ground to paint the stone walls and collect in puddles before draining through the cracks in the stone floor.

The voices grew closer and Mac saw Jack reach for his waist—and his non-existent gun—on pure instinct. The older man rotated to face the tunnel they’d just hurried through, putting Mac behind him. Mac cast a look around the space, mind scrambling for something they could use to hold off the men until they could escape and bring back reinforcements.

Bones, stone, bits of leather…he was scraping the bottom of the barrel.

“They’re coming this way,” Jack said on a growl. “Kill the light.”

Mac ripped the headlamp from his head and turned it off, tucking it into his satchel. A kind of ambient light seemed to fill the chamber and he realized quickly it was from the water—a phosphorescent lichen clung to the walls. It wasn’t much, but it kept the room from being too dark to breathe.

They headed toward one of the other tunnels, but it was dark and narrow, the other one was a bit wider, but without a look at the map—which they currently couldn’t see—there was no telling where they were going to end up.

As it was, Mac wasn’t exactly sure where they were right _now_.

“Okay, Mac,” Jack said. In the soft glow of the lichen, Mac could see him rolling his shoulders and dropping into a crouch he recognized from their sparring practice. “They’re either going to pass by or head in here. If they pass by, we run the other way. If they head in here, we have to be ready to take ‘em.”

Mac nodded, his brain buzzing. Digging out his Swiss Army Knife, he cut a section of the leather strap off of his satchel. Setting the satchel down, he pulled off his belt, and made a loop with the buckle. Grabbing up a few stones, he set one in the center of the leather strap and one in the belt loop, then handed the satchel strap to Jack.

“What’s this?”

“Slingshot,” Mac replied.

“Slingshot? Are you nuts?”

“Hey, it worked for David,” Mac countered.

Jack adjusted the stone in the center of the leather, and turned his attention back toward the door. “Pretty sure Goliath didn’t have a Beretta,” he muttered.

Mac held his breath, hoping their luck would hold and the mercenaries would head past their chosen hiding place. When the LED lights started to bob down the tunnel, he exhaled, readying his belt-slingshot.

“Here they come,” he whispered.

“Son of a bitch,” Jack grumbled. Mac felt the other man shift his stance next to him. “This is _not_ how I thought this day was going to go.”

The minute one of the lights breached the edge of the tunnel, Mac let the stone loose from his belt, hitting the man center mass and knocking him backwards and off his feet. Immediately three other men brought weapons up and Mac and Jack dove to the side, Jack tossing his stone as he fell. The other five mercenaries rushed forward in a flurry of curses, in both French and English, and a few mis-aimed bullets.

Mac dove for the closest man, catching him midsection and driving him to the ground. Both popped up almost immediately, the man’s LED light on his TAC vest aiding his companions in illuminating the chamber. Mac had his hands up, deflecting blows with his forearms, dodging roundhouse swings and wild kicks.

He lost sight of Jack almost immediately, trying desperately to stay on his feet. He took a blow across the face, feeling his top lip split, and returned a jab to the chin, sending his opponent staggering backwards. Pressing his advantage, he slammed the heel of his hand into the man’s throat.

Before he could close in with another swing of his fist, a different man grabbed him from behind, wrapping an arm around Mac’s throat in an attempt to cut off his air. Gagging and gasping, Mac clawed at the other man’s arm, tugging at it to get enough space to take a breath. The first man recovered and advanced, landing a hard punch to Mac’s gut. The air rushed out of him and he would have doubled over if he hadn’t been held up by the man behind him.

He kicked out in desperation, catching the first man in the groin, and sending him stumbling back. Mac clawed at the grip against his neck, groaning with frustrated fear as formulas and scenarios for how to get out of his situation crowded his head until they jumbled and crashed into each other, mis-aligning and making him panic because he couldn’t fucking _breathe_ —

“Use him, Mac!”

Jack’s shout cut through the buzz of confusion in his brain. Close-quarter combat pivoted on violent, unexpected action.

_What can kill you now?_

No bomb, no weapon. Just the two men working to strangle or pummel him to death.

Moving on instinct, Mac braced against the man currently trying to cut off his air supply and ran up the body of the man in front of him, flipping over the one behind him and forcing him to release his grip. Gasping for breath and fueled by momentum, Mac shoved at the man’s back, knocking him into his partner, then brought his elbow down roughly on the back of the man’s neck, sending him to the ground.

The first man pushed away from the wall, coming at Mac with a roundhouse punch. Before he could bring his hands up once more to defend himself, a shot rang out and his remaining enemy jerked and went down. Mac turned to see that Jack had grabbed a weapon from one of the other men and was currently struggling for dominance of it.

Still holding his belt-slingshot, Mac wrapped it around his hands. He ran up behind the man fighting Jack and jumped on his back, dropping the slingshot around the man’s neck and using his body weight to turn the leather into a garrote.

He could feel the man struggling, choking, but he wouldn’t let go of the gun. Jack brought his knee up into the man’s midsection and the man doubled over, gagging on the pressure of the leather against his neck, finally falling forward, taking Mac with him. Mac rolled to his feet, gasping for breath, then looked at Jack.

“You okay?”

“Fabulous,” Jack panted, his lip bleeding once more. At least the butterfly bandages had held, Mac noticed. “Where are the other guys?”

Mac shook his head, dragging the back of his hand across his bleeding mouth, about to suggest they make a break for it, when a shot ricochet above his head. Jack grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him low, running at a crouch toward where the wall of the catacomb chamber had crumbled.

“You got any ideas?” Jack whispered, as they tried to stay out of sight and behind some kind of cover—which at the moment was the sole, broken sarcophagus in the dilapidated chamber.

“Talk our way out of it?” Mac suggested lamely.

“Phoenix!” called a voice in heavily-accented English. “You chose a bad place to fight us.”

“Well, there goes that idea,” Mac grumbled.

“We could split up,” Jack suggested. “I have a weapon; I could draw their fire while you go get help.”

“No way,” Mac shook his head, feeling cold at the possibility of leaving Jack behind. “Not an option.”

A bullet pinged just above their heads and they moved around the chamber toward where the bodies of two men Mac had been fighting were lying. Jack pulled out their weapons, handing Mac a curved tactical knife. Mac took it and tucked it into his waistband.

“We have what you want,” the man continued, “but you have nothing we need.”

“He has a point,” Jack muttered.

“You will die here beneath the city,” the man finished.

“Which one are you?” Jack called from where they were crouched in the shadows. “Caron? Or is it Bisset?”

A bullet hit the wall near enough to them, Mac felt the stone shrapnel pepper his hair. He braced himself as the LED light that had been crossing the chamber suddenly turned to face them, rushing forward in a spray of bullets. Mac could only cover his head with his arms, hoping the man couldn’t see well enough to hit either of them.

Jack flinched and cried out next to him. Mac reached instinctively for his partner, but the next thing he knew, Jack had curled low and launched himself forward, grabbing the man by the legs and dragging him down to the ground with a warrior’s yell.

Mac saw what he thought was the last man heading for the doorway of an adjacent tunnel and he grabbed the knife Jack gave him from his waistband, rushing forward. Unfortunately, the man caught his movement in the light from his vest and pulled out a knife of his own. Mac didn’t have time to wonder where the man’s gun went to because he was suddenly dodging a longer, straighter blade than the one in his hand.

Catching the man across the cheek with a well-aimed fist, Mac tried to quickly bounce away but before he could do so, the other man’s blade swiped him along his ribs, cutting cleanly through his shirt and splitting his skin. Mac gasped, one hand going to his side as he brought the other one up to block another swing of the blade. Dropping his own knife, Mac gripped the man’s wrist and drove him back against the stone wall. Unable to get enough room use the knife, the man scrambled for something on his belt, and Mac brought his  now-blood covered hand toward the man’s throat.

A shout from the tunnel beyond the chamber grabbed the man’s attention and he shoved Mac away with enough force that he hit the ground flat on his back. His ears were ringing, his breath was gone, and he could have sworn the words that were shouted had been in German. The man he was fighting vaulted over him as he ran back down the tunnel.

Coughing weakly, once more in the dark, Mac rolled to his side and tried to drag in air.

“Mac!” He heard Jack call. “Talk to me!”

“’m here,” he tried, coughing harder, his hand pressed against his side as blood from the knife wound soaked through his shirt and into the waistband of his jeans. He pushed to his hands and knees, his head hanging low and tried again. “I’m good. Where are you?”

“Over here, bud,” Jack called back, his voice shaking—with adrenaline or pain, Mac couldn’t tell. “You see where they ran off to?”

“No.” Mac palpated his side; the wound wasn’t terribly deep, but it stung like a mother. “But I think the Germans finally made it.”

“Well, hell,” Jack exhaled and Mac didn’t like the sound of it one bit. “Now it’s a party.”

Trying to orient himself by the light of the lichens, Mac stumbled to his feet, casting about for what was left of his satchel. Finding it discarded near the crumbling wall, he grabbed it and pulled the headlamp free, turning it on. Shining the light around the room, he spotted Jack leaning against the far wall, both hands gripping his left calf tightly, pain drawing tense lines on his battered face.

“Oh, no,” Mac whispered as Jack looked up. The smell of blood permeated the confined chamber.

“It’s a through-and-through,” Jack reported, voice tight with pain, “but it’s bleedin’ somthin’ fierce.”

Mac staggered forward, not entirely steady on his feet, and dropped to his knees next to Jack. “Keep your hands there, keep pressure on it,” he ordered.

He didn’t know how much time they had until the rest of the group came back for their fallen team members; they had to get out of this chamber, and fast. He dug into his satchel and pulled out the first aid kit once more. His hands shook as he found the QuikClot packet and tore it open with his teeth.

“This might hurt,” he warned Jack.

“Already hurts,” Jack whispered.

Mac exhaled shakily, trying to position the QuikClot over one of the holes in his friend’s skin.

“Mac,” Jack said, his voice incongruously calm. He ducked his chin to catch Mac’s eyes. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

Mac nodded, the applied the QuikClot on the neat hole on the side of Jack’s calf. Jack hissed through his teeth against the pain, rotating his leg so that Mac could get to both sides of the wound. When it was clear the bleeding had stopped, Jack released his hold and sagged back against the wall, grabbing greedily for air. Mac wound a roll of gauze tightly around Jack’s calf.

“Good job,” Jack said, sounding so spacey that Mac looked up at him while he kept wrapping. The older man’s dark eyes were fluttering shut, lashes painting shadows on his pale features.

“No, no, no, hey,” Mac tipped forward until he was kneeling between Jack’s legs, reaching for his friend’s face. “It’s not naptime, big guy.” He patted Jack’s cheek with one hand, using the other to rotate Jack’s head toward him. “Jack, c’mon, man. Open your eyes.”

Jack seemed to flinch a bit, but Mac needed more. He shoved his hand under Jack’s TAC vest and used his knuckles to give him a brisk sternum rub.

“Jack, wake up.” He heard a note of desperation in his voice. The same feeling of panic that had gripped him back in the apartment and threatened to suffocate him in the dark chamber just before he found Jack hit him once more; he found himself dragging in ragged breaths. “C’mon, I need your help to get us out of here. I can’t do this alone.”

“M’okay,” Jack muttered, blinking aware. He stared at Mac, eyes slowly coming back into focus. “I’m okay,” he repeated, prompting Mac to pull his hand from behind the TAC vest.

He cupped Jack’s face in his palms, pressing his thumbs beneath his partner’s eyes—just shy of the bruises—and stared hard at him.

“I’m good, Mac.”

“You sure?” Mac asked, unsteadily. “You scared me.”

“Think it was, uh…bit of an adrenaline-pain one-two punch there.” Jack blinked again, pushing himself up further against the wall.

Mac felt dizzy with relief. His mind was crowded with things he wanted to say, things he needed Jack to know, all of them rising up to be counted in the wake of his fear. They’d been in plenty of tough spots before—there’d been more near-misses than he’d like to remember—but this was the first time in a long time Mac felt the choke of helplessness in the face of Jack’s pain.

He’d spent weeks lamenting his life, angry about what his father had done to him, had denied him. He’d allowed all of that pain, all of that rage, to pull him away from the only real family he’d ever known. He regretted every moment he’d stayed away, allowing his father to control him even then.

“Stop staring at me like I’m gonna vanish,” Jack grumbled. “You know I’m tougher than a little through-and-through.”

“I know.” Mac pulled the water bottle from his satchel. “Here, have some of this,” he ordered.

Jack drank the water gratefully, then frowned. “What’s all that black stuff on your shirt?”

Mac had forgotten about the cut in his panic about Jacks’ wound. He looked down at his side; his blood looked black in the shadow of the headlamp. It wasn’t pretty, that was for sure. But it wasn’t going to kill him. It seemed to have already stopped bleeding.

“Yeah, I let that guy get too close to me with a knife,” he replied, wincing as he pulled the pieces of his Henley away from the nearly four-inch gash. He heard the crunch of plastic as Jack tightened his grip on the water bottle. “I’ll be okay,” he promised.

“You’d better,” Jack grumbled, apparently deciding that mother-henning him would have to wait until they were no longer sitting in a dark tomb. “You’re my crutch.”

Mac tucked the water bottle back into his satchel, then plucked out his compass, taking a quick reading to orient himself. Satisfied, he tied the remainder of the straps together before hooking it across his neck and shoulder.

“You good to get up?”

“Yep,” Jack replied tightly. “Let’s do this.”

Mac pulled Jack to his feet, holding him up with one hand on his back and another on his chest as Jack wavered.

“Easy, Jack,” he said softly. “I got you.”

“That’s supposed to be my line,” Jack muttered, eyes closed.

Mac winced in sympathy as Jack panted out several quick breaths.

“You good?” Mac asked as Jack caught his balance.

The older man nodded once, then looked over his shoulder. “Grab those LED vests,” he ordered. “It’ll work better than that headlamp.”

Mac tucked Stefano’s headlamp back into his satchel and made sure Jack was propped against the wall before he stripped the bodies of their LED tactical vests. Putting one on, he helped Jack with the other over top of his own TAC vest.

“Feel like we’re about to play lazer tag,” Jack grumbled.

Mac huffed. “Yeah, but if these lights go out, they’re not lighting up again for round two.”

He slid Jack’s arm over his shoulder and started carefully down the tunnel away from where he’d last seen the mercenaries head.

“You sure this is the way?” Jack asked, hobbling along beside him.

“No.”

“You know how to get back?”

“Not…exactly,” Mac replied, grunting with the strain of Jack’s weight. “But if we go the other way, we’re going to run into a bunch of guys with a bunch of guns and if we go this way and just…head west-ish, I’m pretty sure we’ll find a way out.”

“How pretty sure?”

Mac winced. “Like…sixty percent sure.”

Jack was quiet for a several steps, then he huffed a laugh. “Shoot, kid. We’ve been playing with house money since Cairo and we just survived a fight with a bunch of mercs in the middle of the Roman catacombs. I’ll take your sixty percent any day.”

Mac felt the older man tighten his grip where his arm crossed his shoulders and he squeezed Jack’s wrist reassuringly. They continued down the tunnel, turning sideways when the passageway grew too narrow for them to walk side-by-side, ducking when the stones jutted down. The LED vests were a vast improvement over his headlamp.

He tried to align the path back with the path he’d originally traversed, but the dark was deceptive and the turns confusing. Jack limped along beside him, clearly working to take as much weight off of Mac as he could. Mac simply held on to Jack, and tried to ignore the burning cut on his side.

“You okay, bud?” Jack asked after they’d been walking for a while in silence.

“Fine. Why?”

“’Cause you’re bleeding again.”

“I’m not…,” Mac paused and looked down. “Well, shit.”

“See what you got in that purse of yours,” Jack pulled away from Mac as they reached another tunnel offshoot and leaned against a stone wall.

“It’s not a _purse_ ,” Mac grumbled, digging into his satchel.

Jack’s weight against his side must have pulled his skin enough to re-open the knife wound. He grabbed the last of the gauze, removed his LED vest, and pulled his shirt up, holding it in his teeth as he pressed a square of gauze on the deepest part of the wound.

He growled a bit as the pain shivered through him.

“You got any more of that QuikClot?”

Mac shook his head. “Used it all on you,” he said, his shirt still caught in his teeth.

Jack pulled away from the wall, weight shifted to his right hip. “Well, this ain’t good,” he grumbled, eyeing Mac’s side with a frown. “We need to get out of here and get you patched up.”

“You’re the one with the holes in your leg!” Mac protested.

“Fine,” Jack looked up and peered down the tunnel they’d paused next to. “Get us _both_ patched up. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Mac grumbled, winding what was left of the rolled gauze around his midsection.

“Hang tight a minute, bud,” Jack said, drawing the stolen handgun from his waistband and straightening up from the wall. “There’s some kind of alcove or something down this tunnel. I can see light there. Might be a way out.”

“Jack, don’t—“ Mac whispered fiercely, but Jack was already limping forward.

Finishing with the last of the gauze, Mac tied it off as quickly as he could then knelt and started to gather up his satchel and LED vest. Suddenly, he felt a shift in the air along the tunnel ahead of him. Before he could lift his head, he heard a distinct German voice.

“ _Was zum teufel_?”

Mac shot to his feet, the LED vest shining from the ground up toward the ceiling and providing a circle of light around him. Not ten feet away stood a man about his height, older than his father, carrying a cylindrical-shaped bag on a strap over his shoulder, his own LED light giving the air around him a slight bluish hue. He was alone, clearly not having anticipated running into any one other than the men he’d been planning to meet.

Mac held his hands up. “Wait, okay…, just—“

The German pulled a weapon from his waistband and pointed it at Mac.

“They told me you were handled,” the German stated in heavily-accented English.

Mac’s brain lit up. German scientist, cylindrical bag. Syntac. _Where the hell was Jack_?

“They were wrong,” he replied, trying for a bluff. “Now, how about you hand me that bag.”

The German scoffed. “Why would I hand this off to a _boy_? You’re not even a soldier. I think you are maybe lost.”

Mac brought his chin up. “I’m not alone,” he informed the man. “My team is just down that tunnel.”

The German cocked the gun. “You are lying.”

“You’re a scientist,” Mac deflected, trying appealing to the man’s good nature…hoping one existed. “Why are you doing this? You could kill millions of innocent people.”

“Nobody is innocent anymore,” the scientist countered. “And if they are the right people, I might want them dead.”

Mac knew then that he’d lost this round. Thinking quickly, he dropped to the ground and grabbed his LED vest, throwing it at the German’s face just as the man fired. His aim sent sideways, the bullet shattered the light, blowing the vest apart.

“ _Jack_!” Mac shouted, scurrying forward and tackling the German around the legs, toppling him.

The cylindrical-shaped bag rolled free. Mac scrambled to his hands and knees, straddling the German and slammed the man’s arm against the ground until he released the gun. Mac crashed his fist into the other man’s face twice, desperate to overpower him as he knew—he _knew_ —the Syntac was in that bag.

The German shoved a fist into Mac’s wounded side, causing him to cry out as pain crashed his system, sending him tumbling to the side. The German got to his hands and knees, grabbed Mac by his hair and slammed his face against the wall of the tunnel. Mac felt blood flow from his nose, pin-pricks of light erupting at the corners of his eyes. Gasping for air, Mac brought his elbow back sharply, connecting with the German’s throat and sending him back.

As Mac turned, he saw the German reaching for his gun, but Mac knocked it away with an uncoordinated sweep of his arms. They crouched, facing each other, the eerie LED light from the German’s vest illuminating the tunnel, throwing shadows across the stones and skulls.

Both were panting; both were desperate.

Mac took a chance, darting for the cylindrical bag. The German matched him. Mac grabbed the bag, but its contents—a silver canister about the size of Mac’s hand—rolled free. Mac launched to his feet, intending to vault over the sprawled figure of the German and get the canister when the man managed to grab it first, pulling it toward him and rolling to his feet.

Breathing hard, Mac held out a hand, trying to think of some way to grab the canister from the German when the man drove all rational thought from his mind by turning the canister toward him and spraying it directly into Mac’s face.

Mac shouted in surprise, the sound escalating helplessly into a scream as pain ripped into him in waves, stealing his breath and sending tears coursing unchecked down his cheeks. Eyes closed tightly against the burning, he staggered against one of the walls, going to his knees, his body curling over itself in an instinctive move of protection.

His hands covered his eyes, but there was no getting away from the unrelenting agony that tore into his eyes, his skin, his lips, his mouth, his throat. Helpless bleats of sound slipped from his mouth as he tried to find his balance, all-to aware that he was not alone in that tunnel.

“ _Now_ , you are handled,” the scientist said, his mouth near Mac’s ear.

Then he was gone.

And all that Mac had left was pain.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Roman Catacombs  
It’s really anyone’s guess at this point**

**Time is meaningless in the dark**

**_-Jack-_ **

He could have sworn that the light was different; from his vantage point down the end of the tunnel, he’d hoped they’d circled around to one of the tourist routes. But it turned out to be just another LED vest on another goddamn mercenary. Seeing that, any control Jack had on his temper vanished.

“Where the hell are all you guys coming from?” Jack demanded as he surprised the man, grabbing him by the back of the vest and slamming him face-first into the wall. “I’m so over dealing with this shit.” _Slam_. “And do you have fuckin’ maps in your heads, or what?” _Slam_. “How the hell do you move around this place so fast?”

Evidently tired of having his face crushed against an ancient stone wall, the mercenary hooked his foot around Jack’s ankle and twisted. Normally, Jack wouldn’t have been taken down that easily by a rookie maneuver, but his leg was already shaky and he landed hard on his back. Growling, he flipped over and grabbed the retreating man by the foot, dropping him, then climbed him until he was sitting on the man’s chest.

The mercenary reached up with a desperate growl and grabbed the LED light from Jack’s vest, pulling it free, the light snapping dark and useless. Jack used a knee to pin one of the man’s arms flat. Ignoring the pain of having his leg folded beneath him, Jack grabbed the mercenary’s face, squeezing his mouth.

“You fuckers had your fun,” he said. “Thought you’d leave me in one of them burial shelves, huh?”

 _“Non! S'il vous plait!”_  

“Yeah, that’s not gonna fly with me, pal,” Jack shook his head, squeezing the man’s mouth harder. “You want someone to understand what you’re saying, you got the wrong guy. English!” he barked. “What does Jonah Walsh want with the Syntac?”

“I do not know this Jonah Walsh!”

The sound of gun being fired caused both men to jerk in surprise.

_“Jack!”_

“Oh, you sons of bitches,” Jack growled. He pulled his fist back. “You hurt him and I swear to _God_ I will kill you all.”

“I don’t know who he is!” The man pleaded, just before Jack’s fist plowed into his nose, crushing it and rendering him unconscious.

Jack reached for the wall, hauling himself up on shaking legs. Pulling his useless LED vest off, he reached for the mercenary’s LED light, intending to use it to replace his own, just as he heard Mac shout. He limped quickly away from the body of the merc as Mac’s shout turned into a scream that came close to shredding Jack’s sanity.

That wasn’t fear, that wasn’t anger. That was _suffering_.

Anguish the likes of which he’d never heard come from his friend.

“Mac!” Jack shouted, limping down the tunnel back toward where he left Mac patching himself up. The scream faltered and tapered and the moment it stopped, Jack’s world ended. “ _MAC_!”

Someone was coming toward him—rushing forward, something tucked under their arm. The figure began to shout something—it sounded like German. Jack didn’t slow. Lifting his stolen gun, he fired point-blank at the man’s LED light. The tunnel was plunged into darkness, but Jack kept moving until he tripped over the man’s body and went down hard on his knees.

“What did you do?” Jack bellowed, using the man’s body and the wall to gain his feet. He kicked at the pack the man had been carrying, picking it up without thought, and slinging it over his shoulder instinctively.

“Mac!” he shouted, keeping one hand on the wall to feel along the curve of the tunnel he was in, meeting the tunnel where he’d left Mac. Small sounds—whimpers, really—made their way toward him and turned his heart sideways.

That couldn’t be MacGyver. Good _Lord_ , please don’t let that be Mac.

He paused, grabbing breath as he ran out of wall. There was a faint glow behind him from the vest of the merc he’d left behind, but it did nothing to help him find his partner in this pitch. Sinking to his knees, Jack crawled toward where he heard the sounds of pain, feeling his way until he touched a boot, then denim, the leg within trembling violently.

“Mac?”

“ _Jack_ ,” he gasped, and Jack’s heart skipped, crashing hard against his rib cage.

Mac never sounded like this, in all the years he’d known him. He’d been plenty hurt in the past, but this….

“I’m here, bud,” Jack breathed, scooting close enough he could now feel how Mac was curled into a ball, his arms up by his face. He found Mac’s head with his hand and rested his fingers in his partner’s hair. “I got you.”

“S-syntac…,” Mac gasped.

“Syntac?” Jack frowned, confused.

“G-german…sp-sprayed—“

“Oh, Christ,” Jack went cold, realization sending waves of nausea through him. “Where’s your pack?”

Mac just shook.

Using the dim glow from the merc’s vest light in the distance, Jack oriented himself to the tunnel he’d traversed and pinpointed where Mac had been when he left. Crawling forward with one hand out so that he didn’t head-butt a wall, he felt around the cool ground until he found Mac’s satchel. Pulling out the headlamp, he turned it on and immediately shone the light toward Mac.

“Oh, bud,” he breathed, seeing Mac’s curled, trembling form. Hooking the headlamp to his TAC vest, Jack crawled back toward his partner, pulling the satchel with him. “Okay, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay, Mac.”

He didn’t know who he was trying to reassure at this point, but the sounds of misery Mac was making were cutting into his heart and making it hard to breathe. He pulled out one of the water bottles, and leaned toward Mac, trying to gently pull him upright.

“Let me get in there, bud,” he said, wincing as Mac slowly uncurled. “Oh, Mac,” Jack whispered as he caught sight of his partner’s face.

Blood smeared the bottom half—clearly sourced from both his nose and lip—and the skin around his eyes and along his cheekbones was red and raw. He could see small blisters forming on the skin along his orbital bones.

“Okay, open your eyes for me, Mac,” Jack entreated. Mac whimpered and Jack winced. “Just for a second, I swear.”

As though the lids each weighed a hundred pounds, Mac obeyed. His blue eyes were blood-shot and red-rimmed.

“Gonna just wash them out, okay?” Jack soothed, tipping Mac’s head back and pouring water over Mac’s face, concentrating on his eyes.

Mac flinched, but held fast, his body trembling from the effort. Jack saw him clenching his jaw as he groaned. He emptied one bottle of water and started for the second when Mac grabbed his wrist, halting him.

“All-all we g-got,” he stuttered. “S-save it.”

“I gotta get those chemicals out, Mac,” Jack protested, helplessness starting to choke him.

“N-not gonna m-matter,” Mac told him. He rotated until he was sitting with his back against the wall, his legs uncurling until they were sprawled next to Jack. “Not now.”

Jack felt a block of ice make its way from his stomach to his heart. Frowning, he tipped the beam of light from the headlamp up toward Mac’s face, shining it directly in the kid’s eyes. Mac didn’t so much as flinch. His pupils remained blown wide, the blue irises standing out like neon against the angry red irritation. Tears flowed still, but not from emotion; it was simply his body trying to combat the foreign agent.

“Oh, Christ, Angus,” Jack breathed.

“You’re sh-shining a light in m-my eyes aren’t you?” Mac asked, clearly fighting to keep his voice under control. He wrapped his arms around his middle, reminding Jack of his defensive posture back in the apartment. “’s okay,” he swallowed hard, his throat bobbing with the motion. “’s okay, Jack.”

“It’s _not_ okay, dammit.” Jack pounded a fist against the ground. “Nothing about this mission is okay.”

Mac clenched his teeth and closed his eyes, a groan caught low in his throat. Jack put a hand on the kid’s shoulder, feeling the rise and fall as he fought to even-out his breathing.

“Okay, kid, talk to me.”

“’s like waves,” Mac ground out through his teeth. “Like knives inside me…under…under m’skin. But then it…,” he exhaled slowly, “it fades and all I feel is burning.”

“Burning where?”

Mac’s face folded slightly, his chin trembling and Jack wanted to simultaneously wrap him up tight and throat-punch the psycho who invented this stuff.

“Everywhere,” he moaned, then rolled his lips against his teeth sucking in air before letting out a shaky exhale of control. He coughed roughly, not even moving to cover or stifle it.

Jack tried to ignore the way the kid’s split lip painted blood on his teeth.

“Can you breathe okay?”

Mac pulled in a slow breath, then nodded. “So far.”

Jack used the light and dug into the satchel. He saw the glow sticks and smiled sadly at his partner’s foresight. Pulling them out and sticking them in a pocket of his cargo pants, he then opened the first aid kit, swearing under his breath at the depletion there. Mac had used most of his supplies cleaning up Jack; he was able to find some antiseptic wipes to clean the blood off the kid’s face, and dab at his lip, but there wasn’t anything he was going to be able to do about the burns and the blisters until they got out of there.

He pulled Mac’s shirt up to check the knife wound and winced again at the blood he saw soaking through the bandage. Taking the last of the gauze pads from the kit, he pressed it tightly against Mac’s side, ignoring the ensuing hiss of protest, and used the medical tape to keep it in place. Looking through the satchel, he removed the other water bottle and any other usable supplies, then set the satchel aside and stuffed the supplies into the cylindrical pack he stole from the man he killed in the tunnel.

“Okay, bud, here’s how it’s going to go,” Jack said, one hand on Mac’s arm, the other at the juncture of his neck and throat. “I’m getting us the fuck out of here and we’re getting you fixed up, okay?”

“Y-your leg—“

“It’s fine for now,” Jack reassured him. “QuikClot’s holding, it’s not bleeding. I mean, it hurts like a mother, but when a little pain ever stopped us, huh?”

“Right,” Mac nodded, swallowing roughly. Jack recognized it as his attempt to stifle a cough, but didn’t call him on it.

“We’re just going to keep going the same way we were headed,” Jack said. “That German dude came from somewhere, right?”

“Where’d he g-go?” Mac asked, his fingers scrambling clumsily for Jack’s shoulder.

“He won’t be bothering anyone,” Jack replied cryptically.

“H-had the Syn-syntac,” Mac told him, finding a grip and curling his fingers tightly.

Jack patted the cylindrical bag. “Not anymore,” he said, easing Mac to his feet.

They both cried out, then swallowed the sound, neither wanting to worry the other. Jack hobbled slightly on his wounded leg, but then gained his balance. Mac was upright, but bent in half, one arm wrapped around his middle, his fingers curled into Jack’s shirt as he panted through a wave of pain. Jack rotated so that Mac’s forehead was resting against his chest and rubbed soothing circles on Mac’s back until his breath began to even out slightly and he was able to straighten a bit.

“You good?”

Mac nodded, not saying anything.

“We do this like CQC training,” Jack instructed. “You keep your hand on my shoulder, stay directly behind me.”

“’kay,” Mac replied, allowing Jack to move him into position.

“You tap out if you need us to stop,” Jack directed, then started to limp forward, the headlamp bouncing with every lurching move forward.

They made progress for about twenty minutes, Jack feeling Mac’s grip tighten every few steps, until Mac gasped and went to his knees, his hand coming completely loose from Jack’s shoulder. Jack turned to find Mac curled forward, his lower lip caught in his teeth as he tried desperately to keep his cry of pain suppressed.

Jack turned and put his hands on Mac’s arms and the kid groaned and flinched away.

“I’m sorry,” Jack pulled his hands up immediately. “I’m sorry, kid.”

“ _God_ , Jack, I can’t… _ahhhh_!” Mac’s eyes closed and he folded forward, one hand splaying against the ground to keep himself from face-planting.

“What can I do?” Jack asked helplessly, looking down the dark tunnel behind Mac, then at the stones surrounding them.

Mac just shook his head, his rough exhales of breath sending dirt scattering away from him and he worked to get control of himself again. After what felt like an eternity, Mac seemed to slump, leaning sideways until he landed against a wall.

“ _Fuck_ , this hurts,” he panted. “’s like…acid. Inside me.”

“C’mon, kid,” Jack gently took his arm and helped him to his feet. “We gotta keep moving.”

Mac nodded wearily, sweat plastering his blonde hair to his forehead, little clouds of breath puffing out in the cool air. Jack re-positioned him and they continued on, the tunnel bending, growing narrower and lower until Jack was forced to bend over, Mac resting his forehead on Jack’s back so that he didn’t crack his head on the stone ceiling.

Jack’s head throbbed, his leg throbbed, his body was weeping with exhaustion, but he had no choice. He _had to_ keep moving. He could feel Mac’s trembling increasing with each step, the kid’s hand fisted into his shirt, his low moans a back-beat of sound to Jack’s rasping, fatigued exhales.

After two more pauses for Mac to ride out a particularly harsh wave of pain, Jack saw they were approaching a fork in the tunnel pattern. He paused, trying to determine which way they should go when their headlamp began to sputter. Jack turned his focus from the tunnel before them to the wavering light, hitting it with the flat of his hand and cursing it thoroughly. An uneven stone caught his boot and he stumbled, causing his wounded leg to flair brightly.

“Ah, son of a bitch!” he cried, going to his hands and knees, taking Mac with him.

The lamp went out when it hit the ground and for a long moment, all Jack could see were sparks of pain behind his eyes, heat from his wound riding up his leg to wrap around his chest and squeeze the breath out of him. When he opened his eyes, the dark around him was pervasive and he felt panic add to the pain in limiting his breath.

Then he heard Mac.

The kid was moaning desperately through clenched teeth, a gasp of pain cutting off the sound just for it to start again. Putting his hands out to either side, Jack found the walls of the tunnel. Using that grounding, he turned around, dragging his wounded leg behind him as he fumbled in the dark for his partner.

He landed a heavy hand on Mac’s chest and the kid cried out, a harsh bark of pain. Jack pulled his hand away, patting down the pockets of his cargo pants for the glow sticks. Cracking one of them, Jack gasped for breath in the green glow it emitted, putting him in the mind of night vision goggles.

 _If only_ , he lamented silently.

“Mac?” He called softly. “Talk to me, kid.”

Mac just shook his head, breath shaking out through parted lips. Sweat plastered strands of his blond hair to his forehead, even in the chill of the tunnels, the burns and blisters shiny in the dim glow. His blue eyes were open wide, as though instinctively seeking light even in the utter black.

Jack saw that he was holding himself away from the wall by balancing the palms of his hands against the ground, as if even the touch of the wall against his body hurt. In the glow of the light, Jack could see his body had moved from the pained tremble of before to a full-on shaking. The entire side of his shirt from mid-chest, down onto his jeans was now shiny with blood that appeared black in the green light.

Jack reached out to carefully ease the shirt away from the wound, maybe see about tying his sleeve over the saturated bandage, and Mac flinched back. He misjudged his proximity to the wall and bounced against it, crying out in pain from the contact, but too weak to hold himself upright. His breathing had started to become hitched and choked—from panic, Jack thought at first, but then realized that Mac was fighting with every ounce of strength he had left to stay in control.

This wasn’t panic…this was Syntac.

“Easy, bud,” Jack soothed, cracking another of the glow sticks and setting it on the ground next to Mac. “I’m gonna touch your arms here, real gentle, okay? Just help you sit up a little.”

“ _Nrrgghhh_ ,” Mac bit back a scream as Jack eased him upright, resting him against the stone wall as best he could so that he wasn’t slumped sideways on his wound. Jack watched as his eyes rolled closed and he fought to pull breath in through his nose, exhaling through trembling, parted lips.

“That’s it, Mac,” Jack nodded, though he knew the kid couldn’t see him. “That’s it, easy breaths, okay? In and out. With me, okay?”

“Can’t…can’t feel…y-you,” Mac panted.

Jack grimaced, knowing it would hurt if he held Mac against him as he had in the past when he’d had to combat a panic attack. He carefully picked up Mac’s hand, ignoring the grunt of pain it caused, and pressed the flat of Mac’s palm against his chest, forcing his ribs to swell with the motion of his breathing.

“One easy breath,” he entreated, “that’s it. There you go.”

After a bit, Mac was in more control, though the rasping rattle Jack could hear in his breathing was enough to break him out in a cold sweat.

“How about some water?” Jack asked. “We can just take us a quick break here in this…mercenary-free zone.”

“Sci-scientist—“ Mac tried, but Jack shushed him by putting the water bottle against his lips.

“Yeah, that German guy, what a pain in the ass, right?” Jack down-shifted into levity. It had always worked for them in the past. “Pretty sure Matty’s gonna be pissed that I shot first…y’know, since the whole asking questions part is no longer an option.”

Mac blinked his eyes open, a half smile on his lips as he nodded in agreement. Jack looked away; the blank stare rattling him. When Mac was angry, or when he’d been woken from a nightmare, Jack recalled how his eyes seemed to go blank—like something behind them was misfiring. It was such a marked difference from the usual spark of light that illuminated the kid from within, it always caught Jack like a fist in the gut.

He was looking in Jack’s direction now, staring as though he’d simply lost the plot and was trying to recenter himself. But Jack knew it was so much more. And for the first time in a long time, they were in very real trouble.

“We got a choice to make, bud,” Jack revealed.

Mac simply stared toward him, breath rasping roughly in the dark.

“Left or right.”

“F-fifty-fifty, huh?”

Jack nodded. “Got a coin to flip?”

“Left,” Mac rasped, then his eyes folded closed and he rolled forward, his arms going around his middle.

Jack winced helplessly as Mac’s groans ratcheted up to a keening sound, his body slumping to the side, one hand curled into a fist. He reached out for him, instinct telling him to comfort, but stopped himself as Mac shook with pain, his breath all-but stopping, his mouth torn open around a low, helpless wail.

“Aw, dammit, Mac,” Jack choked out, tears slipping free and running in warm tracks down his cold cheeks.

Mac reached out one hand and Jack reached back and let the kid curl his fingers into a grip, his short nails digging into Jack’s palm as he shook, his pained cry escalating until he rolled to his back, his neck arching up as though he was trying to escape his own body, breath gasping out through parted lips…and then he went limp.

All sound ceased. And Jack felt as though his own heart stopped.

“Mac?” He leaned forward his fingers fumbling for Mac’s pulse. “Mac!”

Finding the rapid, irregular slam of his partner’s heartbeat made Jack dizzy with relief. He curled over Mac’s chest and let his tears flow, his shoulders heaving with silent sobs.

It wasn’t _right_.

Screw fair—it wasn’t _right_ that Mac was suffering like this. That his own goddamn father had orchestrated scenario after scenario for the kid to be in a situation where he was being burned alive from the inside out, trapped in the dark, his only hope for survival a beat-up soldier with more broken parts to him than he’d ever admit.

This kid was worth so much more than what life had handed him. So much more than those in charge of his destiny had ever offered him. And Jack wanted to make sure he got everything he deserved.

Sitting up slowly, head spinning slightly from emotion, Jack wiped his eyes, grabbed the water bottle and took a long drink, then held one of the glow sticks up to examine their surroundings. The last thing Mac had said before the pain overwhelmed him was _left_.

So, left it was.

He checked Mac’s wound; it wasn’t good, but there wasn’t much he was going to be able to do about it until they got free of the catacombs. He checked his own leg; the bandage was holding and amazingly it hadn’t started bleeding again. He hooked the two glow sticks on his TAC vest, secured the cylindrical pack, then stood, pulling Mac to a slumped seated position before easing the kid over his shoulder.

It was awkward and caused his back to seize up almost immediately with the way he had to bend to keep Mac’s back from scraping against the low ceiling, but he was out of options. Deciding to move as far as possible while Mac was unconscious, he found another gear and started limping down the tunnel to the left.

The tension of moving forward in the dark, only the muted illumination from two glow sticks guiding his way, was almost overwhelming. Jack wanted to shuffle his feet, feel along the wall, the terror that he was going to run into something—or someone—or step in a hole, or fall off an unmarked cliff pressed against him, making sweat track down his neck and break out across his bruised face even in the chill of the tunnels.

Luckily, the space widened almost immediately and he was able to stand upright. He’d completely lost track of time, but he reasoned he’d been able to walk for about fifteen minutes before he felt Mac stir and heard the kid groan. One of his glow sticks had faded significantly. He pulled it free and dropped it, making room for a fresh one, but before he could dig it from his pocket, he felt Mac tense up.

“Jack!”

“Easy, kid,” Jack stumbled to a stop, his leg shaking desperately beneath him.

He tried to ease Mac off his shoulder, but with consciousness returned the awareness of his raw, frayed nervous system and Mac cried out with a desperation that startled Jack into almost dropping the kid into what appeared to be a pile of skulls and femurs from a partially excavated portion of the catacombs.

Grimacing in sympathy, Jack moved Mac over so that he was simply leaning against skulls, forcing himself to block out the broken cries his partner was emitting. His breathing had gotten worse. Jack could not only feel it rattling in his chest, it had started to sound thin. Strained.

Like an asthmatic without an inhaler.

“Jack,” Mac gasped.

“I’m here,” Jack reassured him, aching to touch him to reassure him of those words, knowing that would only hurt him more. “I got ya, kid.”

Jack broke open another glow stick and hooked it on his vest. He couldn’t tell if Mac’s lips were blue, or if they were stained with blood from the visible cut. The kid’s eyes roamed like he was looking for something, but Jack could tell he wasn’t seeing anything. His hands pressed against the ground once more for balance.

“H-how f-far?” he gasped.

“Well,” Jack tried to crouch, but his leg shook dangerously. He sat and stretched out his leg out as best he could. “We’re not where we were before, so that’s something.”

He didn’t want to bring up that he had no idea how far they had to go—or even if they were going in the right direction. He knew they were low on hope; he knew Mac knew it, too. Neither of them needed the reminder.

Mac was quiet for a minute, a muscle in his jaw bouncing as he kept a tight hold on his sounds of pain. “Best…best time ‘n m’life,” he managed, blinking slowly.

“What, this?” Jack scoffed. “Dude, you have _got_ to get out more.”

Mac rolled his head against the skulls, his eyes on nothing. He lifted one hand, then dropped it heavily. “W’you…best time of m-my life. Mean it.”

“Hey, now…,” Jack frowned. Because…just, _no_. Mac was not giving up. Not _now_. Not when he just got him back. “You stop talking like that, okay? We’re gonna get out of this. I mean, shoot, kid. We survived a helluva lot worse than this. This doesn’t even scratch Cairo.”

“W-worse,” Mac claimed, shuddering and rolling his eyes closed. “D-dark.”

“Yeah, I’ll give you that,” Jack nodded. “Okay, but what about that embassy in Latvia, huh? That was intense. Or going down in a chopper in Kazakhstan? I thought we were going to be turned into a gigawatt by a bolt of lightning. We got out of that one.”

Mac tried to smile, Jack saw, but an almost visible wave of pain washed over him, pulling the skin around his eyes and mouth taunt.

“And don’t even get me started on getting trapped in your house that’s rigged to explode by one of your arch nemesis’s…nemesi?” He waved a dismissive hand, though it went unseen. “Enemies.”

Mac frowned, his back bowing slightly as he groaned.

“We’re getting out of this, Mac,” Jack said quietly.

Another of the glow sticks had faded, making it harder for Jack to see his partner’s face. He discarded it and drew out the last one, breaking it and hooking it to his vest.

“You g-go,” Mac ordered.

Jack shook his head. “No way, man.”

“Get h-help.”

Jack swallowed, seeing the logic, knowing what Mac was saying made the most sense. But at the same time, with the way Mac was breathing right now, he also knew it was a one-way trip. Either they both got out…or neither of them did.

“I ain’t leaving you behind, Angus,” Jack declared, his voice low and serious. “I know what that feels like; I can’t do it, man. We’re both getting out of here.” He started to push to his feet, but his wounded leg buckled and he went down hard to his knees, a curse on his lips. “After I rest my leg for a minute.”

Rasping breath catching on the words, Mac tried again. “N-need you to know…, Jack,” Mac reached out a flailing hand. Jack caught it and let Mac curl their fingers together in what seemed like the least-painful hold. “N-never meant t-to leave you.”

“I know, kid,” Jack sniffed, tears blurring his vision. “I know why you left. I know you had to go, and I know me needing to bring you home was selfish. It was for _me_ , not you. I just…my world doesn’t _work_ without you in it, Mac.”

Mac nodded stiffly. “Jack,” he groaned, but forced his eyes open. “Y-you’re my h-home. My f-family.”

“I know,” Jack repeated, tears falling unrestricted as he watched his friend’s back bow once more, the chemicals running unchecked through his body, taxing his nervous system, burning his lungs. “I’m gonna get you outta here, kid.”

He released Mac’s hand and tried to push once more to his feet, but found he could barely put any weight on his leg—there was no way he was going to be able to heft Mac over his shoulder. Falling back to his backside, he pounded a fist against the ground, cursing. Mac was visibly shaking and gasping desperately for air with panicked, terrified gulps.

Jack reached for him, but just as he touched his partner’s shoulder, Mac seemed to sag, slipping sideways down the wall, his exhausted body unable to withstand the constant barrage of pain. With a sob, Jack crawled forward until he was next to Mac, pulling his partner against him and wrapping his arms around the kid. Mac was trembling even in unconsciousness, though not nearly as bad.

Cupping the back of Mac’s head and holding him tightly against his chest, Jack rocked them both for a moment, trying to find some path, some resolution, some way out of this. His mind kept flashing to moments he thought he was done—the bomb plate in Afghanistan that Mac diffused, the bomb in the back of the armored car that Mac diffused, impossible situation after impossible situation that Mac had found a way out of, for both of them.

This time, though…this time Mac was compromised and Jack couldn’t diffuse anything. Couldn’t rig up airbags with fire extinguisher triggers, couldn’t air-lift them free with a million balloons and a trampoline, couldn’t catch lightning in a bottle.

All Jack had ever been good at was fighting his way out.

But, this wasn’t a situation he could shoot his way out of and he was going to lose.

He was going to lose the only light he had in his life.

Huffing out a tear-stained breath, Jack leaned his head back against the wall, and for a moment he wanted nothing more than to stay there. To let the darkness win, to give in to the shadows. It was cool here. Quiet here.

And the pain…, well, after all this, the pain was just something to mark time.

“You go kaboom, I go kaboom,” he whispered, rubbing the back of Mac’s head.

He’d miss Riley. And if he were honest with himself, Diane. But he’d lived a lot in his years, and he could honestly say the best thing about it was that he got to know Mac. If this was how he went out, he found himself strangely okay with it.

“No,” Mac whispered against his chest, surprising Jack. He pushed weakly against Jack. “W-wookie…Wookie life debt,” he coughed roughly as Jack helped him sit up, “means we l-live, Jack.”

Jack looked at the strange sort of stillness on his friend’s features after such anguish just a few minutes before.

“What are you thinking, bud?”

“C-canary…,” Mac rasped.

Jack frowned. “Mac, are you with me right now?”

“C-canary in a c-coal mine,” Mac clarified, swallowing hard. “St-still have your l-lighter?”

Jack brought his chin up. A slow grin blossomed across his face. “In fact, yes.”

Through stilted, gasping instructions, Mac directed Jack to use the filaments from the headlamp, the fluid from the glow sticks, and gunpowder from one of the bullets in his stolen gun and make what was, for all intents and purposes, a torch—but one, Mac claimed, that would burn a bright red as it was introduced to more oxygen. Thereby guiding them to their way out.

By the time Jack was done, Mac was curled on his bleeding side, rasping shakily into the dirt. Shouldering the pack of Syntac, Jack pulled Mac to his feet, wincing as the kid cried out.

“Sorry! I’m sorry, man.”

Sucking in breath as though through a straw, Mac allowed Jack to pull one of his arms across his shoulder, his head flopping forward weakly as he gripped Jack’s vest with his other hand. Jack kept him on his wounded side so that he could pull them both forward with his stronger leg, and held tight to the kid’s empty belt loops with one hand and to their ‘canary’ with the other.

Something about having the light—burning, brilliant, practically alive—gave Jack a sense of hope that the limp form of his partner should have squashed. Each step alternated a cry or a whimper as Mac fought to stay conscious despite the fact that every touch stabbed through him. After several minutes, Jack realized the torch was deepening from a bright yellow to an orange.

“It’s working, Mac!”

He continued to pull them forward, one agonizing step after another, telling himself that as bad as Mac’s breaths sounded, at least he _was_ breathing.

“Hang in there, brother,” Jack encouraged. “Told you we’re getting out of here. You just keep breathing. One more breath,” he prompted. “And then another.”

Mac’s shaking increased as the torch turned a brilliant red. He groaned aloud, his grip on Jack’s shoulder faltering. Jack could see light beyond the torch. It was a pearled pale glow, illuminating the end of the tunnel like a beacon.

“Don’t you let go, Mac,” Jack ordered. “You do not get to quit, not now. Don’t you dare go where I can’t follow, you hear me?” His shaking voice echoed off of the tunnel walls. “You hang on, kid. Just hang on.”

Mac’s fingers slipped from the front of Jack’s TAC vest and he tried to change his grip, a whimper at the back of his throat wrapping around the strangled breath that fought to get free. The torch spiked red just as the fuel sustaining it ran out, but by then it didn’t matter.

Jack saw their way out—the end of the tunnel filled with moonlight, fresh air slipping toward them on a zephyr. He dropped the torch, wrapping his other arm around Mac, ignoring his partner’s pained gasp at the touch, and pulled them both along.

“Keep going,” he panted. “You keep breathing, Mac. You got this, kid.”

Mac was going to come apart in his arms, Jack could feel it. He pulled Mac closer as they reached the tunnel end, stepping both of them into the moonlight, and closed his eyes against the cool of the night, breathing deeply.

“We made it, Mac,” he exhaled. “We’re out.”

Mac went boneless in his arms, his legs buckling as Jack gasped in protest, going to his knees in the moonlit doorway.

“No, no, no, not now,” he begged, eyes scanning his friend’s pale face, lips dark from blood and lack of oxygen, skin blistered and burned. He patted the kid’s cool cheek. “C’mon, Mac, we’re out! We’re free!”

He leaned forward, his ear to Mac’s mouth, and felt the barest hint of breath on his skin. “Okay, kid,” he sniffed. “Just a little more, that’s all. Just a little more.” Heaving Mac up, Jack leveraged him over a shoulder, the blood from Mac’s wound smearing across Jack’s cheek and neck. “I got you, kid. I got you.”

He stepped out of the catacombs tunnel and into what appeared to be an open field. To his left was a broad expanse of pastureland. To his right, was Rome. A stone path led from the entrance of the catacombs to a roughly paved road leading to what appeared to be back alleys of the city. Bracing himself for the painful journey, Jack took a shaking step forward.

And then Mac’s cell phone buzzed.

Jack jerked at the sound, close to his ear as it was in Mac’s pocket. Moving toward a stone wall along the side of the path, Jack eased Mac down and pulled the phone out. Sixteen missed calls from an unknown number—the same number calling him now.

“Hello?”

_“Jack?”_

“Matty?”

 _“Where the_ hell _have you been?”_

“Damn,” Jack felt tears burning the back of his eyes. “It’s good to hear your bark.”

 _“The Phoenix has been compromised,”_ she told him.

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock,” Jack sniffed, dragging a hand across his eyes. “It gets worse; Mac’s been dosed.”

He practically felt Matty stop breathing. _“With Syntac?”_

Jack sank down to his knees, laying a hand on Mac’s chest to feel his weak breathing. The wheezing sound slipping through his parted lips was terrifying. The moon light wasn’t doing his worry factor any favors as he looked at Mac’s face.

“He’s in bad shape, Matty, and we’re in the middle of some field outside of Rome.”

 _“One second.”_ Jack heard her cover the phone and bark an order at someone nearby. _“You need to get him epinephrine as soon as possible,”_ Matty returned, her no-nonsense voice back. _“I’m sending exfil to you, but it will take a while to get it secured.”_

“How the hell am I going to find epinephrine in Rome?”

 _“Ask someone,”_ Matty instructed. _“Just keep him alive, Jack.”_

“On it,” Jack replied. “This a secure line?”

 _“Yes,”_ Matty replied. _“I’ll call you when I have an exfil in place.”_

The line went dead. Jack stuffed the phone into his cargo pants, and bent to pick Mac up once again, this time balancing across both shoulders instead of on one. Mac’s face ended up at his shoulder and his weight balanced easier on his wounded leg.

“We got this, bud,” he huffed, limping down the road toward the city on shaking legs. “We got this.”

The bright moon illuminated his path right up to the back of what looked like row houses, the side street lined with parallel parked cars. Jack was breathing hard, his wounded leg barely holding his weight. Mac hadn’t made a sound since the entrance to the catacombs, but Jack could feel him breathing, even though it felt scarily shallow. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to carry him through the city like this, but he had to get help.

Easing Mac down at the base of a stone pine tree, its umbrella-like branches creating a canopy against the moonlight, Jack sank to his knees next to his friend, adjusting Mac’s head so that he was able to breathe easier. Even if he left him just long enough to find help, someone could stumble upon Mac first and he could easily lose him at that point. He needed to get a note to someone…someone in the city.

He patted down the pockets of his TAC vest and cargo pants—nothing. Frisking Mac as a last-ditch effort, he was surprised to come across a folded up piece of paper in Mac’s front pocket.

_Carina. +39 06 69858231_

“Oh, _yes_ ,” Jack whispered, pulling out Mac’s phone. A quick glance at the face told him it was just before four in the morning—too early for his friends at the café to be there. The phone buzzed twice, and a sleepy voice answered.

“Carina, this is Jack Dalton.” He grimaced, speaking slowly as though that would dissolve their language barrier.

_“Chi è questo?”_

“Jack. Dalton. Uh...Gus. Gus’ uncle,” he tried.

 _“Dov'è Gus?”_ She was sounding more awake now, but he still wasn’t sure how to tell her where to find him.

“Hang...hang on,” he entreated, searching Mac’s phone for a translation App. Finding what he was looking for, he tried, “Gus is hurt,” speaking slowly into the phone’s microphone.

_“Gus è ferito?”_

“Yes, er, uh…si, si,” Jack replied. “I need medicine and help.”

_“Dove sei?”_

“Uh… _dove sei_ … _dove sei_ …,” he searched the translation App. “Oh! Where am I, yeah, okay, so…,” he stood up, one hand against the tree for balance. He spied a white sign fixed to the side of one of the buildings. “Looks like I’m near the Via Vitellia…and close to like…a field. Uh. _Un campo_.”

Carina muttered something that sounded suspiciously close to ‘son of a bitch,’ but he allowed that it could have been the accent.

“Mac needs help, Carina,” he pleaded, sinking back down to pull Mac’s form against him. “He needs medicine.”

“Med—sin?” Carina repeated.

“How the hell, okay, hang on….” Jack typed a word into the translation App. “He needs _epinefrina_. As soon as fucking possible.”

“I come…find you,” Carina promised, and the line went dead.

Jack pulled Mac close, one hand on the kid’s cold cheek when he heard Mac groan. In the slowly fading moonlight, he looked dead. If Jack hadn’t been able to feel Mac’s heart beating beneath his fingers, if he couldn’t see the shallow rise and fall of his chest, he would have thought he lost him somewhere beneath the city as the French mercenary had threatened.

As the moon slid toward the horizon and the sky began to bruise with the coming of dawn, Mac stirred, his body shuddering with awareness. Jack eased up on his hold, but didn’t release him entirely, waiting to see if Mac would wake completely or if this was just his body’s way of combating the pain.

The strangle of air hissing through his bluish, parted lips told Jack that Mac was coming around and he propped him against the tree, on hand on his shoulder to keep him upright.

“Aw, God,” Mac rasped, one hand going to his chest as though in an attempt to relieve pressure.

“Hey, bud,” Jack greeted. “How’s the pain?”

Mac blinked his eyes open and for a moment the terror captured there cut through Jack. He looked around, the blue irises aglow in the red rawness of his eyes.

“Easy, Mac,” Jack gripped his shoulder carefully. “You’re okay. I’m right here.”

“Jack?” Mac called, weakly. His breathing sped up, as much as it could. Jack could feel him shaking beneath his hand. “ _Jack_?” The fear in his voice speared Jack’s gut.

“Mac, I’m right here,” he put his other hand on the side of Mac’s face cupping it gently. “We’re out of the catacombs.” He thought quickly. “You smell the air? No dirt, man.”

“No dirt,” Mac repeated, still looking around desperately, his pupils blown wide. “’s still d-dark.”

Jack bowed his head. “Your eyes, uh…they got kind of messed up…do you remember? It’s why you hurt so much.”

“C-can’t b-breathe…,” Mac rasped, one hand going to the ground, the other reaching up to where he could feel the pressure of Jack’s hand. “Jack.”

“I know, bud,” Jack replied. “I’m getting you some help.”

“Jack…,” Mac seemed stuck in one gear, dragging air in through parted lips, his hair falling over his face as he curled forward, fingers digging into the grass next to him. “ _God_ , this h-hurts,” he confessed.

“I know, man,” Jack tightened his grip slightly. “I’m sorry.” He removed his hand, afraid he was hurting Mac, but it seemed to panic the kid more.

“Don’t g-go!” Mac pleaded, his eyes widening, focused on nothing. “Jack!”

“I’m right here,” Jack returned his hand, scooting closer. “I’m here, Mac, you feel me?”

“Yeah, ‘s just…dark. Just r-really dark,” Mac gasped, his chest bucking slightly as he fought to breathe, his back bowing away from the tree as his began to shake in earnest.

The sky was lighting up around them, gold lining the horizon like a gilded edge. The gray buildings were turning to stone and the grass was glistening silver with dew. Jack swallowed hard.

“I’m not gonna leave you, kid,” he promised. “You’re gonna be okay.”

A car screeched to a halt, double-parking along the side of the road, and Jack saw a swirl of dark hair as someone vaulted from the driver’s seat. He whistled and in moments he saw Carina duck between the row of cars and hurry toward them. She skidded to a stop at the sight of Mac, her eyes widening, then shifted her gaze to Jack, worry lining her mouth.

“I have…med-sin,” she held up two epipens. “This…will help?”

“Jack….” Mac’s voice was almost gone, his lips parted as he worked just to pull in air.

Jack waved Carina forward. “Here, just…hand ‘em to me.”

He took the pens from her, pulling the cap off of one with his teeth, then jabbed the needle into Mac’s leg, depressing the plunger with no warning. Mac’s back arched and his weak, ragged scream echoed off of the nearby buildings, causing Carina and Jack both to flinch in response. Before Jack could apologize, Mac slumped to the side.

Jack pulled the pen from Mac’s leg, feeling quickly for his pulse, then exhaled. He shoved the second pen into a pocket in his cargo pants and looked at Carina.

“I need you to help me get him somewhere safe.”

“Safe?” she asked, her head tilting to the side, her large, dark eyes roaming Mac with something like trepidation.

“There’s someone who wants to hurt him—both of us, actually, because of something we took from them. I need him safe until my people can come get us.”

She narrowed her eyes at Jack, pointing to his face. “ _La tua faccia_.”

Reaching up to wipe at where she was pointing on his cheek, Jack realized that Mac’s blood was drying on his face. “That’s not mine,” he said, looking down at Mac. “We need to get off the street.”

“My…um… _appartamento_?”

Jack nodded. “Hell yeah, even a Texan knows that means your place, so let’s go, sister.” He pushed to his feet, feeling his leg shake beneath him.

“ _Sei ferito_...um...hurt?” She pointed again to his head, then eyed his bandaged leg.

“Yeah, I ain’t feeling so good, but I’ll live,” he crouched down, hooked the cylindrical pack over his shoulder, then pulled Mac against him.

The kid was all arms and legs, dead weight, and almost as tall as Jack. Picking him up was not easy; still, desperation drove the body to do the amazing things. With a teeth-gritted groan, Jack stood, leaning most of his weight on his opposite leg, Mac cradled in his arms.

“Car?”

Carina nodded, leading the way. She opened the back door and helped Jack ease Mac onto the back seat, his breath started to sound less like he was breathing through a straw, but his shaking didn’t ease up much. Jack climbed in the back, holding Mac’s head in his lap, and closed the door.

“Go!”

Carina drove through the narrow streets like the police were on her tail. Jack even glanced back once or twice to make sure they weren’t being pursued. They reached her apartment and she turned around to face Jack, holding up one finger.

“ _Aspettare_ ,” she told him. He simply nodded.

Mac lay trembling against his leg, blood crusting his lip and smeared across his cheek where Jack hadn’t been able to clean it completely in the dark. The sunburned effect from the chemicals contrasted sharply with the bloodlessness of his skin, and the blisters around his eyes had swelled, some of them breaking open to expose raw, damaged skin beneath.

His lips were parted, but he didn’t seem to be fighting quite so hard to breathe—or was that simply wishful thinking?

After a moment, Carina returned with a large man following her. Jack blinked in surprise. The man looked like a mix of Rocky Balboa and Andre the Giant.

“My…uh, friend?” She offered, pointing to the man as she opened the door. “Will help.”

Jack nodded dumbly, his adrenaline tapering rapidly as he sat in the relative safety of the car. The man bent forward, leaning into the car and began to gather Mac up from Jack’s lap. Mac cried out weakly and Jack started.

“Careful, Andre,” he protested. “He’s not doing so great.”

The big man didn’t reply, just pulled Mac up into his arms and waited for Jack to climb out, the cylindrical pack over his shoulder. Mac looked small and young in the arms of the big man, his legs and arms swinging free, his head hanging back over the edge of the man’s arm. Carina closed the car door behind Jack, then led the way up two flights of stairs and into her apartment. By the time Jack reached the door, he was trembling with fatigue, sweat running down the sides of his face.

He saw Andre lay Mac gently on a bed and he moved like a magnet toward his partner’s inert form. Carina said something to Andre, shooing him from the apartment, and closing the door behind him. Jack stood near the bed wear Mac lay, swaying dangerously on his feet. Muttering in Italian, Carina came toward him, trying to take the cylindrical bag from his shoulder.

“No,” Jack protested, gripping the back tightly. “I’ll hang onto that. Just…just need some, uh…some food. And maybe to sit….”

He never got the word _down_ out of his mouth. The world tilted abruptly to the side and he felt himself sinking into the floor, nothing but quiet waiting to greet him when he landed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Rome  
Carina’s apartment**

**0600**

**_-Mac-_ **

The first thing he was aware of was pain. Like a shimmer beneath his skin—not quite unbearable, but close enough it made him want to instinctively gasp.

That was the second thing he was aware of: his lungs felt compressed. As if someone were standing on him, bearing down with all their weight. A voice in his head murmured that panicking would make it worse.

He tried to pull in a slow breath; he knew he could keep the odd spinning of the earth at bay as long as he could pull in air.

It was dark.

But, he could feel warmth on his skin. Like sunlight. Which meant—

“…should have worked. I don’t understand why he’s not breathing better by now.”

He didn’t recognize the voice. Female, accented English, but distinct. Educated. It was only then that Mac realized he had no idea where he was—where _Jack_ was.

“We gave him one dose about two hours ago,” the woman said, and Mac realized she was speaking to someone he couldn’t hear—maybe on a phone? “I’m about to try another. His color is for shit. Yes… _yes,_ Marco, I _know_ he’s no good to us dead. Why do you think I’m calling you, you bastard? This was _not_ part of our plan.”

Mac blinked, belatedly registering that the darkness was not his environment, but his eyes. He let them fall closed as the voice drew closer—in the room with him now. He could smell perfume. Familiar.

Flowery, almost sweet. And a faint hint of cappuccino.

Something inside him seemed to fall. _Carina_.

“Don’t worry about the other one, Marco,” Carina muttered, her voice pitching lower, softer in deference to her proximity to Mac.

He felt the bed shift behind him as she sat, the soft pressure of a hand on his bare arm enough to make him involuntarily shudder. Her hand was like fire. Or ice. Burning him.

“I’ll handle him,” Carina continued.

 _Now, you are handled_.

The memory of the German’s voice cut through the cloud in Mac’s mind and he gasped just as Carina disconnected her call. He shuddered again, his muscles quaking and shivering out of his control. Carina ran a hand up his arm and Mac groaned from the fire that followed her touch.

“Shhh,” she soothed. “ _Sei al sicuro_.”

So, they were back to Italian. Mac didn’t have the strength to pull up his bank of languages. In fact there was only one word he seemed to be able to utter.

“ _Jack_ ….”

Carina stroked his forehead and he tried to bite back a whimper, his chest feeling heavier. He dragged in a slow, heavy breath, blinking eyes open to darkness, as he felt something cool on the burns along his cheeks. She continued to _shhh_ him and he registered that a low moan was building at the back of his throat. He bit his lip, the pain of it like a lightning bolt against his skin.

“ _Devo vedere la tua ferita_ ,” Carina said softly, lifting up the hem of his shirt.

“No,” Mac moaned, trying to grab her hands, but he couldn’t get a bead on where her body was positioned in relation to his. “No, please.”

She ignored him and he felt her pulling the bandages free, the pain of it crashing against him. It was as though his blood cells were spiked, slipping through his system with blades, slashing along the way.

He didn’t realize he was crying until the sting of tears slipped across the open blisters along his orbital bone. He heard Carina murmuring something to him and he tried to call for Jack, but he couldn’t get any air into his lungs…he opened his mouth, his hands flat on the bed, the cotton comforter feeling like barbed wire against his skin.

He bucked slightly, fighting for one breath… _just one easy breath, c’mon kiddo_ …but he couldn’t…there was nothing. He was fighting to pull in air through lungs that had been pressed flat, airway reduced to the width of a straw.

Mac felt himself slipping backwards down a tunnel, sinking into darkness, eyes blinking ineffectually, wet lashes leaving evidence of emotion on his burned skin.

His head spun and his ears hummed and the darkness across his eyes mocked him and he felt like he was _dying_. He barely registered his fingers scrambling against the comforter, searching for an anchor, some way to fight back, to stay alive. He had to _stay alive_ because…because….

The thought slipped away, oxygen-starved and anorexic.

For a moment there was nothing. A complete absence of sound, light, sensation.

And then a sharp stab in his leg and a rush of something warm through his blood stream and suddenly he was gasping, choking, crying.

 _Alive_.

His lungs began to inflate and he simply lay there and pulled in breath after breath, fighting back the weightless, disconnected feeling of slipping off the edge of the world with nothing and no one able to grab him and pull him back to safety.

Carina’s voice came back to him then, still speaking Italian, reassuring him and cleaning his wound with something that burned before starting to wrap it again and _good_ _Lord_ her fingers were like knives and the bandage was so heavy and he just…he couldn’t.

He was done.

“Jack…,” he breathed as he let the darkness envelop him completely.

* * *

**Carina’s apartment**

**_0800_ **

**_-Jack-_ **

_“Jack….”_

The world rushed back to him at light speed the minute Jack opened his eyes. He sat up, reaching for his gun and grabbing air. His pulse seemed to slam against his skull, slipping his vision sideways a moment, but then he gained his equilibrium and saw that he was lying on a sofa in a strange room, his leg re-wrapped and propped on a pillow.

Blinking, Jack looked around the room, immediately spotting Mac lying on a bed in the next room, only an arched doorway separating them. The kid looked terrible: his shirt had been cut or torn open, a clean bandage wrapped around the knife wound on his side—which must have hurt like a bitch. He was pale, his face canted toward Jack, eyes closed, and burns visible from across the room.

Jack scanned the room for Carina or her friend—he figured she’d had help getting him from his decidedly ungraceful collapse near the bed to this couch, seeing as how she was about one hundred pounds soaking wet.

The apartment appeared empty, save the two of them.

Pulling the pillow out from beneath his leg, Jack rotated to sit for a moment, making sure his body wasn’t going to betray him again. Once he gained his feet, he realized he wasn’t quite as shaky as he’d feared. His leg ached, and his head wasn’t going to be letting him alone anytime soon, but he was steady on his feet and felt alert. He reached up to scratch at his jaw line and realized she’d washed Mac’s blood off his face as well.

Limping toward the bedroom, he continued to scan the apartment for their things and saw a small kitchenette just to the right of the archway leading to the bedroom. On the table was his TAC vest, the stolen gun—clip set aside—and the cylindrical bag, with a small silver canister sitting outside of it.

Jack narrowed his eyes. Could be nothing. Could be curiosity. Caution. Any number of things. But in his experience, the average barista didn’t know how to disarm a Beretta and would have stayed away from a mysterious canister after seeing Mac’s condition.

He limped over to the bed where Mac lay sprawled. He was still breathing shallowly, but it seemed to be slightly less labored, his lips pink instead of blue. Jack tilted his head, eyeing the burns and blisters and noted that some kind of salve had been applied. Next to Mac’s leg he saw an empty epipen, and instinctively patted the pocket of his cargo pants. Carina had apparently taken that from him, as well as Mac’s phone.

He was about to sit on the edge of the bed when he heard keys in the door of the apartment. He rotated, waiting as Carina stepped inside, a backpack on her shoulder.

She startled to a stand-still when she saw Jack.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, eyes darting to the table, then to Mac, before shutting the door. _“Dovevo ritirare i refornimenti—“_ she began.

“Yeah,” Jack held up a hand. “I’m just going to stop you right there. You took my phone, so I don’t have a clue what you’re saying.”

Carina frowned, then looked at the table once more, moving toward it almost nervously before setting the backpack on the edge, blocking the gun from Jack’s view. He felt himself tense, his instincts triggering warnings that he tried to turn off. Smiling hesitantly at Jack, Carina moved around him toward Mac, pausing at his head to brush his hair from his face, not touching his skin.

Jack glanced at the bandage around the kid’s waist. How much had it hurt him for her to mend that? Was that how she’d picked up on the fact that it was her touch itself that hurt him?

“How’s he doin’?” he asked softly.

She glanced at him over her shoulder, then lifted her fingers from Mac’s hair. “More med-sin…,” she gestured to the epipen.

“Yeah, I saw that. Wasn’t breathing, huh?” he hooked his thumbs in his belt and watched her carefully.

She frowned and sighed, then turned back toward Mac, muttering in Italian, _“Il Syntac non avrebbe dovuto influenzarlo così severamente_.”

Jack may not have been a hundred percent sure what she was saying but he _was_ a hundred percent sure he heard the word ‘Syntac’. And he was four hundred percent sure he never mentioned that word to her. He hated to step away from Mac, but every instinct within him was screaming for him to grab the weapon from the table.

“All right, who are you? And who else knows we’re here?” Jack’s tone shifted from worried uncle to Delta soldier in a heartbeat.

He saw her shoulders tense, her head coming up, and then she was reaching for something under Mac’s pillow and turning to face him in one fluid motion, the barrel of a Beretta—not unlike the one broken down on the table—pointing toward his chest. He purposely didn’t raise his hands, continuing his slow backwards motion toward the table.

“You’re good,” Jack nodded, clenching his jaw. “I gotta admit, I didn’t see this coming.”

“ _You_ weren’t supposed to be here,” she snarled, her English accented but perfectly clear. “The plan was to recruit _him_.” She tipped her head back toward the bed, but Jack didn’t take his eyes from her, refusing to be distracted by his helpless partner.

“So, Jonah had him pegged all this time, that it?” Jack guessed, wishing like hell he still had Riley in his ear.

Carina frowned. “Who is Jonah?”

Jack boldly turned his back on her, wandering back toward the couch and banking on her following—getting her away from Mac.

“Oh, c’mon, sweetheart,” he mocked. “Don’t try to pull that _I don’t know any Jonah Walsh_ crap like your friends down in the catacombs.”

“Do not move another step,” Carina ordered, and Jack halted, turning back around to face her, standing parallel to the kitchen table. “And I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

Jack frowned. “Really? So…no KX7? No nefarious plan for the Syntac?”

“The Syntac is to be ours,” Carina informed him. “The fools Marco was dealing with could not manage a simple drop.”

“Marco, huh?” Jack arched an eyebrow, movement from the behind Carina catching his attention. It looked like Mac was stirring on the bed. He glanced away. “How about you put that gun down and we talk like actual people.” He looked back and grinned at her. “Get to know each other a little.”

“I do not wish to get to know you,” Carina huffed. “You were never supposed to be here and he,” she hitched her head back toward the bedroom, “was never supposed to be dosed.” She sighed and shook her head, her aim never wavering from Jack’s chest. “He was going to help us realign the formula.”

 _So at least that part was real_ , Jack thought.

“Your intel was off if you think you were going to get him to help you create something that would hurt anyone,” Jack informed her.

Carina gave him a sly smile. “I can be very persuasive,” she claimed. “And besides…we were given certain,” she supported the butt of the gun with her free hand, “guarantees.”

“By who?” Jack demanded.

She smiled again. “It’s of no matter to you. Once I heal him, I will simply convince him that he is helping my people stop this from happening to anyone else.”

“So…, wait,” Jack held up a hand, his concern for Mac momentarily overriding his awareness of the fact that she’d only be telling him this if she were planning to kill him. “You’re saying you can help him? Beyond the epipen?”

Carina frowned, her shoulders sagging slightly. “It is affecting him more severely than it should be,” she confessed. “The amount in the canister the Germans were to deliver should have been half a toxic amount. He isn’t breathing better…and he should be.”

Jack knew immediately why—the kid hadn’t gotten over the lung infection yet. But Carina had no knowledge of that illness, which meant she hadn’t been tracking him all along—she’d simply been alerted to him when he arrived in Rome. He could use that.

Assuming he lived long enough.

“Guess you’re just going to have to find some other genius to work your magic, huh?” Jack shrugged breezily, his hands resting on his hips.

She scoffed. “Do not pretend you don’t care what happens to him.”

“Lady, I was just here to bring back a mark,” he shook his head, expression folding into disinterest. “I mean, I played along but now that I know you’re going to fix him up….” He shrugged again.

“You lie.” Carina narrowed her eyes. “I heard you—I _saw_ you. The way you protected him. Cared for him.”

“Hey, what can I say?” Jack tilted his head. “You make a mean cappuccino for an Italian…what? Mercenary? Arms dealer?”

“I am a _scientist_ ,” she hissed.

“Whatever,” Jack lifted an eyebrow. “So, we’re good? I can go?”

His gamble backfired.

He’d wanted her ire to launch her at him, but instead, she shot backwards, grabbing Mac by the hair and jerking his head back at an awkward angle. Mac cried out, blinking in pain and confusion, his blank eyes sweeping the room, landing on nothing. Jack felt his whole body tense as Carina pressed the barrel of her gun against Mac’s temple.

“You will allow me to do this, with no care?” she challenged, jerking Mac forward and off the bed, the kid stumbling helplessly.

“Hey,” Jack returned, his voice wavering slightly. “You’re the one who said you needed him, not me.”

Mac’s hands flailed out, seeking an anchor, some kind of balance. He groaned as she pressed the gun harder against his head.

“Carina…don’t—“ Mac gasped.

“Be still!” Carina hissed.

She turned her attention to Mac and Jack made his move. Juking quickly to the side, he grabbed the Beretta and clip from the top of the table then dove beneath it, sliding the clip home in one move.

And then he heard Mac shout.

* * *

**Carina's Apartment**

**_-Mac-_ **

The voices seemed to ebb and flow around him, like waves lapping against a shoreline. He wanted to surface, break out of the suffocating dark, but he was so tired. Still, there was one voice…one constant back-beat of sound that seemed to connect to his mind, his heart, drawing him forward like a whispered command.

“Your intel was off if you think you were going to get him to help you create something that would hurt anyone.”

 _Jack._ He was alive. He was okay. He was… _really_ pissed off.

“I can be very persuasive. And besides…we were given certain guarantees.”

It came back to him like a rush of noise in his head. Carina wasn’t just a pretty grad student. She hadn’t been drawn to him because he was interesting. She’d sought him out.

And she was the reason he was in so much pain.

“So…, wait.” Jack was talking again, something in his voice bending, as if he were trying to find a path through a maze of barbed wire. “You’re saying you can help him? Beyond the epipen?”

The pain in his leg—it was an epipen. With no one touching him to light his nerves on fire—and with the straw he was currently breathing through having widened quite a bit—Mac’s brain was alive and crashing through a surplus of realizations and conclusions.

Things were starting to fall together.

The components of the Syntac would have been blocked by the epinephrine, momentarily alleviating the respiratory distress and quieting the hypersensitive nerve endings. He didn’t know how long it would last—and it was already starting to feel like his lungs were actually thickening up—but he was tensed to use the reprieve to his advantage.

“It is affecting him more severely than it should be. The amount in the canister the Germans were to deliver should have been half a toxic amount. He isn’t breathing better…and he should be.”

 _Sorry to disappoint you_ , Mac thought. He started to turn, ready to alert them both to his presence, when Jack shocked the hell out of him.

“Guess you’re just going to have to find some other genius to work your magic, huh?”

Mac froze. Every cell in his body waited for Jack’s voice to change again.

“Do not pretend you don’t care what happens to him.”

“Lady, I was just here to bring back a mark. I mean, I played along, but now that I know you’re going to fix him up….”

A mark. CIA speak. Mac knew this game. He just had to be ready.

“You lie. I heard you—I _saw_ you. The way you protected him. Cared for him.”

“Hey, what can I say? You make a mean cappuccino for an Italian…what? Mercenary? Arms dealer?”

“I am a _scientist_.”

 _Whatever_ , Mac internally scoffed.

“Whatever. So, we’re good? I can go?”

Mac knew what Jack been going for, but the instant he felt Carina’s fist in his hair, jerking his head back painfully, he knew they’d played it wrong. He cried out, pain crashing through him and causing him to arch up, trying to relieve the pressure. He blinked his eyes wide, desperate to see something.

 _Anything_.

Then he felt the barrel of a gun at his temple.

“You will allow me to do this, with no care?”

She pulled on his hair, tugging him off of the bed and to his feet, the gun pressing harder, his body bent at a painful angle to accommodate her smaller stature.

“Hey. You’re the one who said you needed him, not me.”

He couldn’t get a bead on where she stood, where Jack was, hell…where _he_ was. He was adrift, the only thing anchoring him the cold press of a muzzle to his skin and the grip of a fist in his hair.

“Carina…don’t—“ Mac gasped.

“Be still!” Carina hissed, jerking on his hair.

He felt the air around him shift violently and he took a chance. Swinging out toward where he heard her voice, Mac connected with her arm and collar bone, sending her gun hand sideways. She staggered back slightly, pulling him with her.

“Jack!” he shouted, grabbing at Carina’s arms, feeling her resist and scramble to shove the gun between them, but his momentum and weight took them backwards until her back made contact with a wall.

Using that leverage, Carina shoved a fist into his chest, and he felt the barrel of her gun against him once more. Swaying precariously, he stumbled backwards, thinking only to get away from the gun but Carina shouted at him to stop. He didn’t even register that she’d returned to Italian, he simply continued backwards, his hands out to his sides, uncertain where anything in the room was located.

A gun cocked. Mac felt sweat break out across his skin. He put one hand forward and felt air, having backed far enough away from Carina.

“Carina, don’t you pull that trigger.” Jack’s voice was dangerous.

Mac slowed to a stop, trying to orient to where Jack’s voice was coming from.

“I cannot fail,” Carina declared. “If you will not help me, I’ll find someone who will.”

“Carina,” Mac tried, and felt the air shift around him again, this time with the surging willpower of his protector. “Drop the gun.”

He felt the barrel of the weapon press against his bare chest.

“I _cannot_ fail,” she repeated.

And Mac knew. He knew Jack was going to shoot her if he didn’t do something.

He took a breath, focusing every bit of his flagging energy and reached up on instinct, grabbing perfectly for her arm based on where the weapon was pressed against his chest, then rolled his body forward and down her outstretched arm until his back was to her front, the gun pointed away from him and toward the room. Pushing backwards with a shout, the fire of contact burning through his back, his arm, he shoved her hard against the wall, trying to get her to release the gun.

She fired instead.

Mac could smell the acrid odor of gunpowder and sulfur, the heat of metal, but he didn’t hear a shout or a cry of pain. He brought his leg up and shoved her arm down, hitting her wrist against his knee. She cried out and he heard the gun clatter to the floor. He stumbled forward, going to his hands and knees, the air around him filling with the smell of sweat and heat and Old Spice.

“Eh! Don’t move. Don’t you _fucking_ move!”

“Jack,” Mac gasped, his skin on fire, his breath coming in short hitches. “You okay?”

“I’m good, you just stay still, Mac, okay?”

Mac nodded wearily, sinking back, one arm wrapped around his side. He could hear Jack hauling Carina to her feet, and then something that sounded like ripping fabric.

“That oughta hold you for a while,” Jack grunted.

Mac could hear Carina’s voice railing at them from behind a gag. He flinched in surprise when Jack touched his shoulder, sensing the other man crouching down in front of him. He felt himself sink further back on his heels, a tired smile relaxing his face.

“You okay, bud?”

Mac nodded, wishing he could see Jack. He reached out, flailing a bit at air and felt Jack shift so that his head connected with Mac’s fingers. He traced his thumb along the outline of Jack’s face—the butterfly bandage, the scruff at Jack’s jaw, feeling muscles in his cheek shift as the man’s mouth tipped up into a smile.

“That was some badass ninja shit right there,” Jack remarked. “You sure that Syntac stuff didn’t give you super powers?”

Mac chuckled tiredly. “I’m sure,” he replied, lifting a shoulder with a shrug. “I just…I knew if I didn’t do something you were going to shoot her to protect me, so….”

“I take my job very seriously,” Jack told him, and Mac heard the promise chasing the humor in his voice. “But…you’re right. This one, Matty gets to question.”

Mac chuffed. “She might prefer being shot.”

Carina garbled something at them through the gag, but they ignored her. Jack tucked a hand beneath Mac’s elbow and helped him to his feet, guiding him toward the bed so that he could sit down.

“You just sit tight here,” Jack patted his shoulder gently. Mac tried not to wince. “I gotta get us a ride.”

He couldn’t take a deep breath without coughing hard enough he nearly tipped forward. He could hear Jack moving around in the other room, hear him on the phone with someone—Matty, most likely. Mac just sat and tried to breathe, cataloging his body’s reaction to the stimuli of his tongue on the cut along his lip, his hand at the burning knife wound along his side.

He wasn’t sure where Jack had deposited Carina, but he could tell she was still in the room with him. He could smell her perfume over the lingering stench of gunfire.

“I really liked you, y’know,” Mac said softly. Carina huffed through her gag. “I won’t say I should have known. I’m not gonna do that.”

He wouldn’t believe that everyone he met outside of Jack was destined to betray him. Even though it had happened with Thornton. With Nikki. With his own father. He couldn’t afford to believe it.

Because if he did…he’d just keep running. And it was time to stop.

It was time to go home.

“Eh—what do you think you’re doin’?” Jack exclaimed, coming back into the room. Mac frowned, listening as Jack seemed to add zip ties to whatever binding he’d applied previously. “Found these babies in your bag of supplies,” he informed Carina. “Pretty sure they were meant for Mac, am I right?”

Mac didn’t hear a response, but he didn’t need one.

“You find Matty?” He asked, coughing into his elbow.

“Got us a ride,” Jack told him. “But…turns out our little scientist here has more friends in town than Andre the Giant.”

Mac frowned, completely confused. “Andre the—“

“Skip it, I’ll tell you later,” Jack said, and Mac heard him grunt with effort. “Basically, we gotta exit stage right quick, fast, and in a hurry before I have to have a shootout in this nice little Roman apartment building.”

Mac nodded. “Okay, so…how do you want to do this?”

He felt Jack pause, realizing that the man hadn’t yet worked Mac’s inability to see into his exit strategy.

“Carina is going to lead us,” he said quickly, “and you’re going to follow, keeping your hand on my shoulder the whole time. Think you can do that?”

“I don’t exactly have a choice, do I?” Mac sighed, chasing the statement with a small smile to take the sting out of it.

He pushed to his feet, wavering slightly off-balance with nothing to anchor him. He felt disconnected, as if one wrong step would send him tumbling away into an abyss.

“Jack?”

And then there was a hand on his, the pain of it paling in comparison to the reassurance that he wasn’t alone. He wasn’t going to float away, lost, alone.

“I got you,” Jack said quietly, moving Mac’s hand to his shoulder, and waiting to release it until Mac found a grip. “Okay, slow is smooth and smooth is fast.”

“Roger that,” Mac replied automatically to the Delta phrase, feeling his body respond to the position of a tactical follow in Close Quarter Combat maneuvers.

He could tell there was something resting on Jack’s opposite shoulder, and that Jack’s left hand was extended—presumably pushing Carina in front of him—his right holding his weapon. Mac worked to keep his breaths even, trying to quell the suffocating urge to cough as they moved through Carina’s apartment, out the door, and started down some steps.

As they emerged from the relative quiet of the stairway, Mac could instantly feel sun on his skin, hitting his bared chest and the opened blisters on his face with painful accuracy. He hissed in pain, tightening his grip on Jack’s shirt. The sounds and smells of the city around them increased, assaulting his senses and sending his head spinning.

It was like walking through a carnival, the chaos almost too much after so long in the near-complete quiet and stillness of the catacombs..

He instinctively wanted to curl up, duck away. But he was terrified of losing his grip on Jack. That material in his hand, that shoulder under his fist, it was his lifeline.

Without it, he was lost.

“Okay, bud,” Jack spoke up. “We gotta move. You with me?”

“Y-yes,” Mac stammered, knowing only that he was not going to lose that grip.

The world around him was wrapped in utter darkness, his body betraying him as he began to tremble once more, his breaths coming in harsh gasps as Jack picked up the pace, but he was _not_ going to lose that grip.

“Shit,” he heard Jack mutter, and they were being abruptly shoved backwards and Mac felt himself flailing for balance.

The heat from the sun disappeared and suddenly Mac felt Jack push him down into a crouch. He stifled a reaction to the slice of pain the manhandling caused and listened for what had triggered Jack’s fear. His hand was pried from Jack’s shoulder—and at that he _did_ protest—and roughly placed on a pair of bare, slim arms.

“You hang onto her, Mac,” Jack was saying, his face close enough that Mac felt his partner’s breath on his face. “You don’t let her go, you hear me? You’re the anchor.”

“I’m the anchor,” Mac repeated, nodding, tightening his grip on Carina’s wrists, feeling the plastic from the zip ties digging into her skin.

“I’ll be right back,” Jack reassured him…and then he was gone.

Mac tried to calm his breathing, feeling his lungs begin to tighten, his body trembling in reaction. He could tell they were tucked away from the crowds, but there were too many sounds, too many smells to narrow down their actual location. He felt Carina twisting her body—not trying to get away, more like she was trying to access something.

When he heard her take a big breath, he realized she’d been working her gag free.

“I can feel you shaking,” she revealed. “Your lungs are compressing; your nervous system is rebelling.”

“Quiet,” Mac demanded.

“You can’t see now, but soon enough your brain will re-engage and you’ll relive everything you haven’t been able to see,” Carina continued, “and it will be terrifying. Your nervous system will continue to burn itself out unless the poison is flushed from your system—“

Mac jerked on her arms. “I said _be quiet_.”

“I can help you, Gus,” Carina entreated. “We can help _each other_! I can get you out of here and stop the pain.”

Mac tightened his grip. “My name is Mac,” he said, his low voice dripping with venom. He angled his head as close to her as he could. “And I would rather burn up right here from the Syntac than help you.”

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Carina tried again, leaning closer to him. “You don’t have to hurt, not anymore. I can see how tired you are! I see how much you just want to rest.”

He tried to square his shoulders, school his expression. He was tired. His body practically wept with it. But there was no way he was giving her the satisfaction of being right about any of this.

“I thought I was the blind one,” he growled at her. “You’re seeing things, Carina.”

“You’re a fool,” Carina spat sullenly. “You’re following all the wrong ideology.”

“If you say so,” Mac muttered, easing back on his heels as his side throbbed, the dull ache building to a breath-stealing crescendo before it settled back to a burn just beneath his skin.

He blocked out Carina, blocked out the pain, blocked out the increasing tightness in his chest and listened for Jack. Just then he heard the scream of tires, shouts in English and Italian, and a cacophony of voices coming his way.

Without warning, he was tugged to his feet, Carina with him. He cried out as hands gripped his arms, the touch turning to knives against his skin. He tightened his grip on Carina, causing her to shout in protest as she was pulled in the opposite direction.

“Agent MacGyver,” shouted a voice in his ear. “You can let her go! Let her go, Sir!”

A hand on his wrist, his fingers removed, a hand at his side, pulling him forward and the world seemed to explode into an impressionistic painting of agony.

“Stop—just, you gotta…you gotta _stop_ …!”

He felt himself shoved into a vehicle, arms across him, holding him in place as the vehicle moved forward.

“Don’t… _please_ —“ he gasped, trying to get the hands off of him, but they held fast, keeping him in place.

And then they were stopped and someone else pulled him free and holy _God_ why wouldn’t they listen to him! The hands were everywhere, like fire and blades stealing his breath and he was falling….

“Hey!”

 _Jack_.

“I told you to be careful with him!”

The hands released him and Mac went to his knees. He could feel grass and smell motor oil and hear the _whump-whump-whump_ of helicopter blades. And then gentle hands were easing him to his feet, guiding him with the lightest touch toward their exfil.

“What have we got?” called a voice ahead of him.

“He was dosed with Syntac,” Jack shouted. “Hypersensitive to touch, blinded, restricted airways—“

“Jesus, there’s blood all over him!”

“Oh, yeah,” Jack added. “And he got cut up a bit, too.”

Another set of hands helped Jack lift him into the chopped and the in the swirling, all-complete darkness, he felt himself stretched out on something hard and cold, straps cutting into his ankles and thighs. There were more hands—these not quite as rough—and more voices and Mac couldn’t pinpoint a single one.

It was dizzying.

“He’s hypertensive,” shouted the voice near where Mac felt the incredible weight of a blood pressure cuff wrap around his arm. “Blood pressure is 140/90.”

“I got a bleeder here,” called another, the feel of latex against his bare skin as he was tipped to the side and someone pressed on his knife wound.

Something was pressed against his face and though the burst of cool, clean oxygen felt amazing to his starved lungs, the feel of the plastic against his blistered skin pulled tears from his burning eyes. A sharp pain in his arm followed another shout with another burst of data and Mac was flailing.

He bucked against the straps on his legs, swinging his arms out, needing to get _away_.

“Easy, hey, hey, easy, kid.”

Jack’s voice at his head, Jack’s hands on his arms.

“Unstrap him, will ya?”

“Sir, we’re in an open cockpit—“

“Yeah, I’ll make sure he don’t fall out.”

And then he was free.

Gentle, strong arms eased back against a sturdy chest, the touch not quite as painful, the fire not quite as bright. The pinch in his arm was still there, the rub of the oxygen mask still present, but he could take it. He could take it. As long as….

“Jack….”

“I got you,” Jack said, one hand resting on top of his head. “We’re going home, kid.”

Mac finally relaxed, his hitching breaths slowing, his eyes slipping closed, the world dissolving around him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Phoenix Medical**

**The next day**

**_1100_ **

**_-Jack-_ **

Jack sat on the broad windowsill, the L.A. sun warming his back, his eyes on his sleeping partner. It had been a long twenty-four hours since the exfil pulled them—and their prisoner—from Rome. He’d watched helplessly as Mac had endured numerous needles drawing blood to test for levels of toxins in his system, six different saline flushes, multiple neurological scans, and another dose of epinephrine when he started to asphyxiate once more.

They’d treated the burns along his cheekbones and wrapped his eyes almost immediately. The oxygen mask has been replaced by a nasal cannula, keeping his oxygen saturation within acceptable levels—which to Jack was code for _not suffocating_.

His knife wound was red and seeping, but the infection wasn’t life-threatening yet, so the nurses held off on treating that for the moment in deference to the hypersensitivity pathways of Mac’s central nervous system.

It had been torture to see the way the kid had fought to keep his mouth neutral, staying silent as long as possible through the pain of treating his wounds, only giving in when he thought no one was looking. Seeing his lips fold, his chin tremble, crushed something inside of Jack.

After hours of struggle, Mac finally succumbed, falling into an exhausted sleep that had been aided by a sedative after the fact. It was only then the nurses treated his knife wound—cleaning it, sealing it with surgical glue as it was too late for stitches, and re-bandaging it.

Jack stayed through it all.

Matty came by to check in when they’d first arrived, pulling Jack from the room to reassure him that they had Carina in custody and were questioning her.

“Ask her about somebody named Marco,” Jack told her. “And some…giant guy who helped carry Mac inside her apartment.”

“Giant. Guy.” Matty repeated arching an eyebrow at him.

Jack held a hand above his head. “I’m telling you, he was huge. Like…eight feet tall at least.”

“Uh-huh,” Matty narrowed her eyes. “Have you gotten that head checked?”

“I’ll be fine,” Jack protested, flinching when he heard Mac cry out, then stifle it quickly. “I need to be here for him, Matty.”

“Jack, he can’t even see if you’re—“

“He knows, Matty,” Jack interrupted. “Trust me. He _knows_ when I’m there.”

Matty sighed. “Fine. I’ll ask one of the nurses to treat you in his room, but you’re getting checked out.”

“Fine.” Jack started to turn, then paused. “Wait, Matty.” He took a slow breath. “I know Oversight was tracking him the whole time. I know he set him up in that apartment in Rome.”

“Jack, I don’t—“

Jack held up a hand. “You don’t have to say anything, I get it,” Jack nodded, closing his eyes briefly. “But, you need to know that Mac knows, too. He knows his dad…set him up for this Op.”

Matty exhaled slowly, looking down. “Jack, you can’t believe that he knew what Carina was planning.”

“I don’t know what I believe there,” Jack replied. “Carina didn’t know Mac had been sick in Nepal, so…she hadn’t been tracking him. However she got her information, it was after he arrived in Rome.”

Matty nodded. “I can use that.”

“I know you can,” Jack smiled. They both winced at a sound of pain emanating from the room behind them. “I’m going back in there.”

“He’s going to want to see Mac,” Matty informed Jack, causing him to halt mid-step.

“I can’t stop him,” Jack replied. “But I won’t let him hurt that kid more than he already has.”

“I know, Jack,” Matty replied. “Go on. Take care of our boy.”

Some surgical glue and a few more butterfly bandages later, Jack’s head had indeed been examined. A CT scan was recommended and he promised to get to it. At some point. He answered the cognitive and vision tests to the medical staff’s satisfaction, and he wasn’t nauseous, so they let him go with several stern looks and a warning that they were going to add the scan into his chart.

Surprisingly, Carina had done a decent job dressing his leg wound—the nurses cleaned and bandaged it anyway, but declared it infection-free. He was given crutches and instructed to stay off of it for a few days. Acquiescing, he sat on the broad windowsill, legs hanging free, and watched his partner sleep.

He almost didn’t notice when James MacGyver entered the room. James didn’t acknowledge him, so Jack held still, realizing that he was just enough in the shadow of the room that the other man hadn’t seen him. It gave Jack an interesting vantage point;  the man was unguarded and almost human in this light.

James regarded Mac’s sleeping form for several minutes, reaching out at one point to shift some of Mac’s blond hair from his forehead, his fingers trailing over the bandages wrapped around Mac’s eyes. For a moment, Jack could see the father lingering behind the operative, a man who truly did care about the pain his son endured.

Then James sighed, and sank slowly into the chair situated next to Mac’s bed. “You never did things the easy way, did you?”

Jack felt uncomfortable, as though he was intruding on a private moment. But then Mac stirred and Jack couldn’t bring himself to move. He held his breath, waiting.

“Angus?”

“Dad?” Mac rasped, his body tensing with the word.

James exhaled. “Hard to tell when you’re awake with those bandages on.”

Jack frowned.

“You should try it from my end,” Mac replied.

Jack smiled.

“Son, I’m….”

 _You’re sorry_ , Jack thought toward the other man. _Just say it. Two little words. It won’t kill you, I promise._

“I’m glad you’re back,” James concluded.

“In L.A.?” Mac asked.

James looked puzzled. “No, back with the Phoenix.”

Mac swallowed, then rolled his head to the side, his bandaged eyes angled away from his father and toward where Jack sat, unnoticed.

“Only reason I’m here is because your mission went sideways and about killed me,” Mac replied. “I never agreed to come back.”

James narrowed his eyes. “You brought in the scientist _and_ the Syntac.”

“That was all Jack,” Mac replied. “I was basically just trying not to suffocate.”

James was quiet for a moment. “He’s a good agent.”

“He’s the best you’ve ever seen, and you know it,” Mac said, his head rolling once more toward his father’s voice. “I know you want to fire him.”

“He was insubordinate, Angus,” James replied, his voice weighted as if the words caused him pain. “How can I allow that among my agents?”

“Pretty sure you’ll figure something out,” Mac muttered, shifting uncomfortably in the bed, gasping as he did so.

James stood up, bending toward his son. “Are you in pain? Should I get a nurse?”

At that, Jack felt rather than saw Mac still. “Do you know what happened down in those catacombs, Dad?”

James straightened. “I’ve read the preliminary report.”

Mac reached up and began to pull at the gauze wrapping around his head, covering the bandages over his eyes. Jack wanted to call out and stop him, but James beat him to it.

“Wait, don’t do that!”

But Mac was on his own mission. He pulled the bandages free so that his red, blistered skin was visible to his father, his blue eyes staring vacantly in James’ direction.

“It was dark down there, but…not like this. This is like…like black eating black. All tunnel,” he swallowed, “no light.”

James’ shoulders sagged.

“I was there because _you_ put my best friend in danger,” Mac pointed in his father’s direction, bandages gripped in his hands. “They beat him up and stuffed in a burial shelf and if I hadn’t been there to find him, he would have died. And you knew that.”

Jack shivered in reaction to both the memory and the devastation in Mac’s voice.

“I did not know they would—“

“Bullshit,” Mac broke in. “You _gambled_ on it. You made sure I was in Rome right when you needed me to be there and you made sure I would have no choice but to follow.” His voice trembled, his hand shook, but he pushed forward. “You may not have known I’d get dosed with the Syntac, but you were ready for it.”

“No, I—“

“So, you’re telling me it wasn’t you who told Matty about the epinephrine?” Mac challenged.

James was silent.

Jack felt his heart shake against his rib cage. Mac was _angry_. More than he remembered ever seeing before.

 _Don’t push him_ , he wanted to warn James. _He has the power to crush us both. He may be shaking now, but don’t take that as weakness._

“I didn’t go into those tunnels for you,” Mac informed him his hand falling onto his lap, his head dropping back against his pillows. “I didn’t come back here because of you.” He closed his eyes. “I did it because of Jack.”

James nodded, rubbing a hand through his hair. “You’re wrong about one thing.”

“Yeah? What’s that?” Mac asked, not opening his eyes.

“Jack isn’t the best agent I’ve ever seen,” he dropped his hands into his pockets. “You are.”

Mac swallowed and opened his eyes. “And instead of investing in me, nurturing me, you decided it would be better to abandon me.”

“I was always here, Angus,” James protested. “I told you, I was—“

“Watching over me, yeah, I remember,” Mac bit back. “But you know what? So has Jack. Only difference is, he’s never left me alone. Not once since the moment you paired us up.”

“At least you give me credit for that,” James huffed.

Jack wanted to close his eyes. Mac might have been a flight risk before, but now he was a hair trigger. If he had been stronger—if he’d been able see—Jack was absolutely certain James MacGyver would be nursing a sore jaw right now.

“It’s not credit I’m giving you,” Mac replied, a muscle along his jawline bunching. “You want me back so bad? Make it worth it for me.”

Jack’s eyebrows bounced up. His boy was a mercenary. This was new.

“You want…a…a raise?” James blinked in surprise.

Mac closed his eyes. “No,” he sighed. “I want to choose my own missions. I want to choose my own team. _My_ decisions, Dad. Not yours.”

James was quiet for several heartbeats. Long enough Jack wasn’t sure he was going to respond. Finally, though, he sighed, tugged on the bottom of his jacket and nodded.

“I’ll think on it,” he replied.

“You do that,” Mac returned.

“In the meantime…you just…just heal up, okay?” James patted the side of Mac’s bed awkwardly, clearly having been told about the hypersensitivity. “I’ll check in on you later.”

Mac didn’t reply, but Jack heard him exhale slowly when James left, closing the room door behind him.

“You just gonna keep lurking over there?” Mac asked.

Jack grinned, sliding off the edge of the window ledge and limping forward until he was next to Mac’s bed. “How’d you know I was there?”

Mac lifted a shoulder. “Old Spice.”

Jack dragged the chair around to the other side of the bed so that he could be next to Mac and still keep an eye on the door. He sank wearily into it and lifted his wounded leg up to prop on the bed.

“How’s the leg?”

“Eh, got me a couple new scars,” Jack replied. “I’ll be okay.”

Mac was quiet long enough Jack wondered if he’d fallen asleep.

“You were going to stay,” Mac spoke up, startling Jack.

“Stay where?”

“In the catacombs,” Mac revealed, blinking his eyes open, and staring in Jack’s direction.

The redness had faded, the blisters scabbing over and making him look a bit like a boxer with wounds around his orbital bone. The most disconcerting thing was the emptiness that Jack saw there. Everything Mac felt was held in his eyes. The way his brain crackled and sparked like a live wire, the humor, the pain, the joy, the disbelief…Jack needed him to heal up.

Needed to be able to figure out how he felt about something because he was able to read Mac.

“When your leg gave out, and I couldn’t go forward on my own,” Mac remembered, “you were ready to just…stay.”

Jack nodded. “I wasn’t going to leave you behind, kid.”

“I know,” Mac’s chin trembled. “Scares me a bit. What you’re willing to do. To keep me safe.”

Jack smiled softly, bouncing a gentle fist on top of Mac’s curled hand. “You’re my boy, Mac. You go kaboom, I go—“

“Kaboom,” Mac finished, swiping gingerly at a tear escaping the corner of his eyes.

“Get some sleep,” Jack suggested.

Mac closed his eyes, then opened them again right away, his lips parting to take a quick breath. “You gonna be here when I wake up?”

“Always, bud,” Jack promised, a sad smile relaxing his features.

At that, Mac seemed to sink into the bed, his breathing deepening and evening out.

Riley came by to visit, quietly hugging Jack and handing him a new phone with a knowing grin. She caught him up on Matty’s progress with the Italian scientist.

“Looks like this Marco guy was actually Marco Russo,” she told him softly.

“Wait, why do I know that name?” Jack frowned.

Riley grimaced. “He works in the lab,” she reminded him. “He helped us set up the system we used to ping Mac’s location.”

Jack snapped his fingers, then covered his own hand with a wince, glancing over at Mac. Still asleep.

“That’s right,” he whispered. “He was the guy Jill was crushing on!”

Riley nodded. “And it just so happens that he’s Carina’s brother.”

“No way,” Jack whispered.

“Get’s better,” Riley told him with an arched brow. “Marco is the reason the Syntac pinged Jonah Walsh. Looks like Walsh had nothing to do with this, but Marco used the ‘known associates’ connections to build his little ring of mercenaries and scientists.”

“Why?” Jack exclaimed.

Riley shook her head. “Haven’t gotten that far, but…Matty’s not done.”

“Matty is going to have a _field day_ with security when this is done,” Jack sighed.

Nodding in agreement, Riley watched Mac for a moment, then curled up on the windowsill behind Jack with her laptop and earbuds, and settled in to wait for Mac to wake up.

Bozer was next.

He brought Jack a cheeseburger, folding up the ends of the take-out bag to keep the spare burger semi-warm, and chilled out on the other side of the window sill. With basically his whole family surrounding him, Jack felt pretty relaxed himself, his leg propped up on the bed, happily scrolling through Twitter on his new phone, when suddenly Mac shot upright with a shout.

The three others in the room jerked in surprise.

“Mac?”

Mac was gasping for breath, ducking and swiping his arm at something in front of him as though avoiding a hit.

“Mac, you awake, bud?” Jack stood, moving so that he could grab Mac’s shoulders.

Mac flinched violently back and stared at Jack as though he didn’t recognize him—and that’s when Jack noticed his pupils. They were smaller, not blown wide as they’d been for the last three days.

“Oh, shit,” he breathed. “Bozer, go get the nurse.”

“Can’t you just use the little—“

Mac cried out, this time in real fear, and swung a fist, nearly connecting with Jack’s jaw.

“Bozer, just go!” When Bozer had left, Jack turned his attention to Mac, dropping his voice. “Hey, bud. Listen to my voice, okay? It’s not real anymore. It already happened.”

Mac pulled back to the corner of the bed and the rail, the blanket tangled around his legs, the nasal canula pulled loose and hanging around his throat, a sound like a low moan slipping out between parted lips.

“What’s going on, Jack?” Riley asked.

“His vision’s coming back,” Jack told her, climbing up on the bed and reaching once more for Mac’s arms.

“That’s…good, right?”

Mac reached up, shoving his hands into his hair, grabbing for breath. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Jack tilted his head toward Riley. “Except it’s…kind coming back with a greatest hits reel from the whole time he was blind.”

“Oh, shit,” Riley whispered, stepping out of Jack’s periphery.

“Jack,” Mac panted, reaching for him and curling his fingers in Jack’s sleeve. “There’s a…a gun and a long…long dark tunnel….”

“Easy, kid,” Jack soothed, folding one leg beneath him and letting his wounded one hang off the bed. He rested a hand on Mac’s shoulders, letting Mac grip his sleeve as tightly as he needed to, his other hand against the bed rail, as though for balance. “You’re safe, okay? You’re good.”

“Ah!” Mac winced and pressed one hand to the side of his head, not ready to release Jack quite yet. “My head is like…it’s…buzzing.”

“Buzzing?”

“It’s the paralytic wearing off,” said a new voice and Jack shot a look over his shoulder to see the doctor who’d treated Mac earlier walk through the door followed by Bozer and James MacGyver. “His ocular nerve is basically coming back online. Disorientation is expected as is—“

“Ah! Son of a bitch!” Mac gasped, releasing Jack and clutching both sides of his head. “What is that? It’s… _God_ it’s like a…a vice in my eyes!”

“Can’t you give him something?” James demanded.

The doctor nodded. “Yes, but any kind of sedative or pain killer will delay the process—“

“No,” Mac gasped, pressing his hands tighter to the sides of his head. “No, Jack. _NO_.”

“He can take it,” Jack said, glancing at the doctor. “Let him ride it out.”

“He’s in pain!” James protested, his face a fist of misery.

Jack leveled a gaze on the other man. “This is nothing,” he replied. “He can take it.”

“ _Nnnrrrggg_ ,” Mac growled, his teeth clenched. Jack could see sweat beading on his upper lip, rolling down the sides of his face. “There’s a gun and…she’s gonna…she’s gonna shoot me, Jack.”

“She doesn’t, bud,” Jack reminded him, watching as Riley moved to stand next to Bozer, both of them watching Mac with pained expressions.

The doctor disengaged the oxygen and watched with careful eyes, ready to intervene if Jack’s prediction became inaccurate.

“You’re safe, Mac,” Jack continued. “You’re home.”

“Fuck, Jack, it’s all…it’s all jumbled up and—ah!” He jerked back with a cry that startled the others in the room. “Jack, I can’t…there’s too many….”

He was blinking rapidly, as though trying to focus on images spinning through a movie projected on high speed. His eyes were watering, one hand half-way extended, the other curled against his side, his breathing rapid to match what was no doubt a racing heart.

“Too many….” He began to pale, his body swaying in the bed.

Jack reached out and grabbed his shoulders, balancing him. He felt Mac’s hands reach up instinctively to latch onto his arms in response.

“Hey, hey, Mac,” Jack demanded his attention. “You look at me, bud. Right now. At me.”

“Agent Dalton, he won’t be able to see clearly until the ocular nerve—“

“Just,” James spoke up, quieting the doctor’s protest and surprising the hell out of Jack, “let the man work.”

“Mac,” Jack continued, reaching up to cup either side of Mac’s face, bringing the kid’s blue eyes forward. “You look at me, now.”

“Jack?”

“There you are,” Jack smiled.

Mac continued to blink rapidly, his eyes watering, tears balanced on the edge of his lashes. “I keep seeing it all, like…like it’s _now_ , not then.”

“I know,” Jack nodded, keeping his hands in place. “Tell me why that is.”

Mac swallowed, blinking hard and then opening his eyes wide. “Disruption…,” he gasped, trying to pull out of Jack’s grasp as another vision of another memory shot across his vision.

“Angus,” Jack said softly, choosing to ignore the way James MacGyver flinched and focusing instead on the way Mac stilled. “Tell me why. You can do this.”

“The S-syntac disrupts the pathways to…to the ocular nerve. Brain cataloged everything I saw.”

“That’s right, there you go,” Jack smiled. “It’s not real, man. Not anymore. You made it out. _We_ made it out.”

“Not real,” Mac repeated, tightening his grip on Jack’s arms.

“That’s right,” Jack soothed, easing his hands away from Mac’s face and resting them on his shoulders.

Mac shuddered, closing his eyes with a groan as pain cut through him. Jack felt his body tremble as he flinched back, seeing memories even with closed eyes.

“There’s a green light,” he murmured.

Jack nodded. “You were smart and grabbed some glow sticks,” he reminded Mac. “Saved my bacon. Again.”

“And…c-cars…like a lot of cars and a m-market and—“ he surged forward with a gasp, eyes wide. “Carina.” His gaze skipped around the room. “She st-stabbed me in the leg—“

Jack tightened his grip on Mac’s shoulders. “That was me, bud. Epinephrine, remember?”

Mac blinked rapidly, nodding, the sweat slipping to his eyes and tenting his lashes together. “She was tied up,” he said, swallowing. “On a chair in a…a strange room.” He narrowed his eyes as if trying to focus on something. “That…was you. You tied her up.”

“After you pulled your Daredevil ninja move and disarmed her,” Jack reminded her. “Wait until you see that bit,” he grinned. “From my viewpoint, it was kind of awesome.”

Mac closed his eyes, swallowing hard, his skin draining of color. “Feel sick,” he confessed. “It’s moving too…too fast—“

The doctor moved quickly and handed Jack a basin while Jack eased Mac to his side, a steadying hand on the back of his neck as the vertigo won a battle. Luckily, Mac hadn’t eaten much in the last forty-eight hours, so all that really came up was bile. Riley handed Jack a cup of water and Jack handed it to Mac to rinse out his mouth.

“Well, that sucked,” Mac muttered, easing back against his pillows.

“Maybe keep your eyes closed?” Jack suggested.

Mac shook his head, blinking them open, then screwing them shut once more. “’s the same, no matter what. Just a whole bunch of…weird images of buildings and tunnels and guns and…you. There’s a whole lotta you.”

Jack grinned, his shoulders easing as Riley chuckled in sympathetic appreciation. Mac’s fingers were moving restlessly against the sheets in a motion Jack remembered from the catacombs—the way Mac scrambled for a grip on his shoulder. He stretched out a hand and felt Mac latch on to his wrist, wrapping his fingers tightly around his arm.

Glancing over his shoulder, Jack saw that Riley and Bozer were standing together at the foot of Mac’s bed, their eyes pinned to Mac, watching worriedly. James was back at the doorway, having remained silent since his last intervention. The doctor was reading one of the machines, a ballpoint pen clutched between his teeth.

Mac swallowed hard again and Jack reached for the basin, but Mac shook his head.

“It’s…slowing down,” he said. “Not…not as bad.”

Jack nodded.

“I’m good, Jack,” Mac informed him squinting as though trying to focus. “I can do this.”

Recognizing Mac’s habitual need to heal on his own, Jack sighed. _You don’t have to do this by yourself, kid_ , he wanted to say, all-too aware that the reason for this habit was standing behind him.

“Atta boy,” Jack started to lean back, pulling his arm away, but Mac surprised him by reaching up lightning quick and grabbing his wrist once more.

“Not yet,” he breathed, closing his eyes. “Just…I mean, it’s not as bad, but…it’s still kinda…messed up.”

 _Atta boy,_ Jack repeated, silently. He looked over at the doctor, who nodded.

“Agent MacGyver,” he said, watching as Mac blinked his eyes open, tracking over to the voice, focusing on the man. “Are you able to see me?”

“You’re…you’re upside down,” Mac squinted. “So bizarre.”

The doctor smiled. “That’s normal. Until your ocular nerve fully recovers and your brain catches up with your eyes, things will appear…bizarre.” He checked Mac’s pupils, then his oxygen saturation, and replaced the nasal cannula. “I suggest you get some rest. I imagine things will look different after some sleep.”

“Literally,” Jack commented with a small laugh.

“Hurts too much,” Mac shook his head. “Can’t sleep.”

“As it seems you’re past the first hurdle,” the doctor said, glancing between Mac and Jack, “I could offer you a sedative. It shouldn’t delay the ocular regeneration.”

“Yeah, okay,” Mac nodded, shifting a bit in the bed, still holding on to Jack’s wrist.

Jack watched as the doctor injected something into Mac’s IV, then watched as the kid let his eyelids fall slowly closed, seeming to sink deeper into the bed as his grip loosened and his hand fell lax, releasing Jack’s arm.

Jack slipped off the bed and turned to Riley and Bozer. They looked exhausted, both visibly relaxing as Mac sighed in his sleep.

“You two go home,” he said. “Bozer…how about you just do a quick sweep of Mac’s place so it’s all good for when I take him home.”

“You got it,” Bozer nodded, then followed Riley out after she’d said her goodbyes.

Jack looked at where James stood near the doorway. “You want to stay?”

“I don’t think he wants me to,” James replied.

Jack’s eyebrows bounced up. “Huh. Thinking about what he wants. That’s new.”

James shot him a look. “You’re on thin ice, Dalton.”

“Yeah, I know,” Jack nodded. “You do what you have to, Sir. But I’m not leaving this kid.”

“Even if he comes back and you’re fired?” James challenged.

Jack smiled. “You fire me, no way he’s coming back,” he replied.

James stared at him for a moment, his dark eyes unreadable. Then he sighed and looked back at his son. “I know.” He turned, clapping a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “You have two weeks. And I expect you back, no matter what my son decides.”

James reached for the door handle.

“He loves you, y’know,” Jack said softly. “Tore himself up inside trying to find you.”

James looked at Jack, then let his eyes rest on Mac’s sleeping form. “I know,” he replied quietly, then left the room.

Jack sighed. “Sorry, kid,” he said, sinking heavily into the chair next to Mac’s bed. “I guess you can’t choose your family.”

“Yeah, you can,” Mac whispered sleepily.

* * *

It took a full forty-eight hours for the Syntac’s effect to fully wear off.

After a full night’s sleep, Mac woke to an upside-down world, the incongruity of it giving him multiple attacks of vertigo until he just kept his eyes closed unless the doctor came in to test his vision. He got sick twice more, both times with Jack prepared, and they were starting to worry about dehydration, increasing his saline IV drip to compensate.

Riley arranged for a more comfortable chair for Jack, since he stubbornly refused to leave Mac’s bedside, and the doctor allowed it since the one time Jack had acquiesced to their insistence that he go get some rest, Mac woke up from a nightmare in a panic, unable to pinpoint where he was with his world literally upside-down and his memories wreaking havoc on his sense of balance.

The minute Jack stepped back into the room, Mac stilled, and the nurses relaxed. From that moment forward, no one asked Jack Dalton to move away from his partner. Despite occasional bouts of restlessness, Mac coorperated as the doctors worked to rid his system of the Syntac. The only thing he couldn’t really stand, Jack noticed, was having the room completely dark. They simply kept a light on at all times, even though Mac mostly had his eyes closed.

He could still tell.

The doctors informed Mac that he was lucky—his compromised lungs, coupled with the amount of epinephrine he’d been given in a compressed amount of time could have resulted in fatal respiratory distress. Mac had simply nodded, taking the breathing treatments, suffering through the hypersensitivity, and patiently waited out his time in medical until he could leave.

After his sight returned, despite the vertigo and nausea while everything was upside down, Jack saw Mac’s whole demeanor shift. The exhausted defeat he’d witness in Rome was replaced with resolve. He didn’t bring up his father again—and James didn’t visit medical after that moment Mac’s sight returned—but Jack could still feel him there, waiting at the edge of each thought, every conversation.

One morning, two days after Mac’s sight began to return, Jack sat slumped in his easy chair, the leg rest kicked out and his wounded leg propped up, working on a crossword puzzle on his new phone.

“Augustus,” came a voice off to his left.

Jack shifted in his chair, looking at Mac’s sleepy face and clear eyes. “Augustus?”

“First emperor of Rome,” Mac elaborated. “Seven down.”

Jack peered down at his crossword. “Huh,” he replied. “I thought it was Julius Caesar…but that had too many letters.”

“Caesar was Augustus’ great-uncle,” Mac informed him, yawning. “When he was murdered, Augustus was the next ruler…and, why, exactly, are you doing a crossword puzzle about Rome?”

Jack grinned at him over his shoulder. “Seemed fitting,” he said. “It was either that or Indiana Jones.”

Mac chuckled and rolled carefully over in the bed, shifting a bit more upright.

“Looks like you finally got your peepers back,” Jack remarked, feeling like he shouldn’t move too quickly.

“Mm-hmm,” Mac replied, clearing his sleep-roughened voice. “Think they’ll let me go home now?”

“How about I find out?”

When Mac was finally released, Bozer and Riley promised to meet them at Mac’s—for it was truly _Mac’s_ now, with Bozer having relocated—for pizza and beer to celebrate Mac’s homecoming. Jack drove them home from the Phoenix, windows down, radio up, watching from the corner of his eyes as Mac leaned his face into the wind, letting the California sun heat his skin.

“Glad to be home?” Jack asked.

“I am,” Mac nodded. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I love traveling, but there’s just something about coming home that makes you…breathe easier.”

“You would know,” Jack teased, drawing Mac’s patented _very funny_ wry smile.

They pulled into the driveway and Mac frowned as he got out of the car. “It feels different without Bozer here.”

“Dude, you haven’t even gone inside yet!”

Mac shrugged, taking his duffel bag from Jack. “I know. Doesn’t make it feel any less different.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Millennials.”

Mac chuckled and started to follow Jack inside, but stopped at the doorway. When Jack turned to look back, he saw a strange sort of terror on his partner’s face.

“Mac?”

“It’s…,” he swallowed. “It’s kinda dark in…in there.” He stumbled over the confession, but wasn’t embarrassed enough to move forward.

Jack nodded sagely. “Wait right here.”

He left the door open, then limped inside and turned on every light from the hallway through the kitchen and into the living room leading to the back deck. He returned and pulled the door wider.

“There! All lit up!”

Mac glanced down and away, then stepped over the threshold. “Thanks, Jack,” he muttered. “Sorry about that.”

“Hey,” Jack waved a hand at him, leading into the kitchen and watching as Mac dropped his duffel next to the couch instead of heading back toward his room. “Look, you were trapped in the dark a lot longer than I was and I still get the willies when I have to go into a small room with not enough lights, so. No big, okay?”

“Okay,” Mac smiled, then headed immediately for the deck and the sunlight.

Jack grabbed a six pack from the fridge and ordered the pizza, texting Riley and Bozer that they were back. Following Mac to the deck he dropped heavily into one of the chairs, twisting off the top of his beer.

Mac was looking out across the view of the city as though he couldn’t get his eyes full enough.

“Thought at all about what you’re going to do?” Jack ventured.

Mac turned from his surveillance of Los Angeles and flipped the question on him. “What are _you_ going to do?”

Jack crossed an ankle over his knee and sipped his beer. “Well, you know, I’ve thought about it. A lot, actually. I thought about it the whole time you were gone. I thought about it while we were climbing around in the world’s biggest tomb, and I thought about it while you were going through Syntac withdrawals in medical.”

Mac gave him a half smile and accepted the beer Jack offered. “And did any of this thinking yield an answer?”

“It did, it did,” Jack nodded. “But…as you are so fond of saying, you’re not going to like it.”

Mac frowned, but didn’t push, waiting Jack out.

“See, I realized when I landed in Rome that I’d had just about enough of protecting you from a distance,” Jack revealed. “I gotta say, I don’t know how your dad has done it all this time—and I know, I know. That’s a whole other ball o’wax right there.” Jack held up a hand, silencing Mac’s automatic protest. “But whatever else screwed up thing that man has done or thought, he’s still your dad, and kid, he may have a messed up way of showing it, but he loves you. I saw it.”

Mac rolled his eyes, looking away. “He doesn’t know how to love someone, Jack. Not since my mom died.”

“See, now that’s where you’re wrong,” Jack held up his beer and pointed at Mac. “Here’s how I know. I had the best father in the world. The best, hands down. And that man _loved_ his family. Loved me.” Jack smiled softly with nostalgia. “But that didn’t mean we didn’t go at each other like a couple of bulls. There were some fights I’m surprised didn’t wake up the neighbors.”

Mac arched a brow. “Your dad’s the greatest, no question,” he said, clinking his beer bottle against Jack’s. “But…I don’t see what that has to do with mine.”

“I saw the look on his face when he thought you were asleep, and then again when your sight came back,” Jack revealed. “He was in agony that there was nothing he could do to make this better for you.”

Mac glowered and took a sip of his beer.

“You don’t have to forgive him, Mac. You don’t _have_ to do anything,” Jack said, dropping his leg so that he could lean forward, elbows on knees, eyes on Mac. “But it’s important that you know your father loves you. It’s important _for you_.”

Mac swallowed and looked away. “So…you’re going back to the Phoenix?” he concluded.

Jack shook his head. “I’m going where you go,” he told him. “Even if that’s not the Phoenix.”

“Jack,” Mac shook his head. “I don’t want you to choose the course of your life based on my…my desire to defy my dad.”

Jack shrugged, sipping his beer. “Turns out, I’m actually okay with that. That moment in the catacombs,” he said, sitting back, “when I didn’t think I’d be able to get us out…I realized something. As much as I’d miss Riley, and Diane, and hell, even Bozer…I’ve lived a damn good life. And the best thing about it? Was getting to know you.”

Mac looked down, his cheeks flushing red, the healing blisters turning white in contrast.

“So, if you stay, I stay. If you go, I go. And I’m good either way.”

“I’ve been thinking, too,” Mac confessed. “There’s a lot of evil in this world. And it’s in places we…we don’t even suspect.” He looked back up at Jack, meeting his eyes. “And I think the only way to defeat it—both on the outside and inside—is through the Phoenix. So…I’m going to go back,” he ducked his chin, his eyes hitting Jack’s, “as long as you stay with me.”

“I haven’t left you yet, kid,” Jack grinned. “Don’t plan on doing it anytime soon.”

The night stretched on, Bozer and Riley arrived with pizza. The group had fun catching Mac up on their antics while he’d been away—especially Bozer. Jack watched Mac’s bright eyes dance from Riley’s laughter to Bozer’s literal re-enactment and felt something inside of him release.

It felt like he’d been holding his breath for a month and could finally exhale.

Mac’s laugh drew his attention.

“It was really pretty awesome, Mac, I’m telling you,” Bozer was saying.

“Which part?” Riley teased. “The fact that a little girl wasn’t scared of Big Bad Jack, or that he knew to use Sterno cans to start a fire?”

“Either,” Bozer grinned. “Both.”

Mac looked over at Jack. “The Sterno fire was a great idea.”

“Got the idea from when we were in Norilsk, remember that?” Jack grinned, then made a show of shivering. “Never been so cold.”

“That’s because you were hypothermic,” Mac said with a smirk.

Jack lifted a shoulder. “I wasn’t worried; I knew you’d figure something out.”

“I’m telling you, Mac. Jack was like a…a human tank,” Bozer continued, “getting us out of there. I have to admit, when we showed up and there were like 400 guns waiting for us—“

Jack pulled a face and held up five fingers.

“—I thought we were dead, but Jack was all just,” Bozer pretended to hold a rifle in his hands, growling slightly, “It’s judgement day, sinners! Come out, come out wherever you are!”

Mac tossed his head back and laughed, the sound slipping around the room and hitting the other three like a shot of joy.

“Did you just quote _The Dirty Dozen_?” Jack chuckled, handing Bozer a beer in thanks.

“Dude, you were like Lee Marvin and Charles Bronson all rolled into one,” Bozer grinned, accepting the beer.

“I’m impressed you even know who those guys are, Boze,” Riley grinned.

Mac shook his head, waving Riley off. “Oh, don’t get him started,” he chuckled, one hand wrapped around his wounded side. “Since the moment he decided he was going to be a director, he’s made it his mission to study every movie genre, like. Ever.”

Jack grinned, watching Bozer bounce a fist off of Mac’s, the two of them laughing at something the other said in recollection of their shared childhood. The contrast to the memories Bozer shared in the War Room over a week ago was like seeing the other side of a shadow.

The stories continued late into the evening and Jack realized he wasn’t the only one who noticed Mac’s increasing withdraw from conversation.

As night took hold, Mac observed more than he participated, his smile soft and appreciative, his body drawing lines of tension between the other three. When the glow of lights from the deck could no longer permeate the dark, Mac gravitated inside toward the living room like a moth to a flame.

“I think it’s time to call it a night,” Bozer declared, watching Mac retreate into the light. He exchanged a knowing look with Jack and gathered up the empty bottles and pizza boxes.

“Feels weird,” Mac muttered from the well-lit kitchen. “You leaving here at the end of a day.”

Bozer shrugged. “Maybe I’ll be back, you never know.”

Mac gave him a half-smile. “Naw, man. I’m happy for you.”

“You gonna be okay here, though?” Bozer frowned, looking worriedly at his friend’s closed expression. “I mean, I don’t want—“

“It’s okay, Boze,” Mac reassured him. “I’ll be fine.”

Jack simply nodded from behind Mac, reassuring Bozer that Mac wouldn’t be alone until he was ready.

“Drop me at Billy’s?” Riley asked, grabbing her jacket.

Jack crossed his arms and gave her a mockingly stern look. “Be careful over there, Ri,” he grumped.

She rolled her eyes, but then leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Always am, Jack,” she replied. “Thanks for coming home.”

Jack’s expression softened and he gave her a one-armed hug, waving as Bozer held the door open for her and they both left.

“What about you?” Mac asked.

Jack made his way over to the front door, twisting the new lock and tugging to make sure it held.

“I figured, your first night back…you might not be ready for an empty house,” he said, glancing back at Mac.

He was rewarded with an exhale of relief.

“You look exhausted, kid,” Jack continued. “How about you grab some shut-eye? I know where all the spare stuff is.”

Mac glanced down the darkened hallway toward his room and Jack saw his face tighten with reluctance and trepidation. He was about to offer to turn on the lights when Mac shook his head.

“I’m too wired,” he claimed, moving back toward the safety of the the living room.

“Okay, well…how about a movie,” Jack suggested following Mac and sinking down onto the edge of the couch.

“Aren’t you tired?” Mac asked.

“Nah,” Jack replied, waving a hand. “Never too tired for a movie!”

Mac smiled. “Yeah, okay.”

“I pick,” Jack declared.

“Thanks, Jack,” Mac said softly.

Jack gave him a side-eyed glance. “You haven’t seen what movie I pick yet.”

“I mean,” Mac sat heavily on the couch, tucking himself back into the corner almost protectively. “For not calling me out for…y’know.” He waved his hand around his face, toward his eyes. “It’s stupid, I know.”

Jack sighed, his shoulders curling forward. “Kid, you know I got my fair share of issues. Guys like us…we can’t do what we do and just leave it all behind,” he glanced at Mac, watching as the kid’s big eyes took him in as if memorizing every line, every word. Just in case. “You’ll get past this. You will.”

“I hope so,” Mac confessed softly. “I just can’t…close my eyes. Not for long anyway. I’m afraid when I open them….”

“It’ll still be dark?” Jack guessed.

Mac nodded, his gaze slipping away.

“I get that,” Jack told him. “But no matter what, Mac, you’re not going to be alone in that dark. Whether it’s inside you or out in the world. You got me. Always, you hear?”

Mac nodded again, rubbing a hand on the seam of his jeans. “I hear you,” Mac replied. “I hope I never make you regret that, Jack,” he whispered.

Jack wanted to reach over and give the kid a hug, but the way Mac was holding himself screamed _personal bubble engaged_ , so he kept his arms at his sides.

“Not possible,” Jack replied. “’Cause you know what? It was my choice. You are my choice—being your partner, being your friend. Doesn’t matter who connected us in the beginning, I re-upped to make sure the slowest EoD in the desert didn’t get himself blown up trying to save the world.”

Mac nodded, his chin quivering slightly, his eyes shifting back towards Jack, though not quite landing on him.

“And I chose to join DSX with you, stay at the Phoenix with you, and follow every cockamamie idea in that head of yours, you know why?”

Mac did look at him then, questions in his blue eyes.

“Because I trust you, Mac,” Jack smiled. “One hundred and ten percent.”

“You know it’s empirically impossible to go beyond one hundred,” Mac teased, vocally shoving his emotion down deep, but unable to pull it from his eyes.

Jack shrugged, waving a hand. “Science has nothing to do with this.” He dropped his chin and met Mac’s eyes. “I trust _you_ , Mac. Always have. And I don’t regret that one bit.”

Mac looked down. “Okay,” he nodded.

“Now, how about that movie?” Jack clapped his hands together. “I say we go for a classic.”

“Dude, I don’t think I can watch _Die Hard_ tonight,” Mac grumbled good-naturedly.

Jack tossed him a look. “You’re no fun. Besides, there’s no possible way anyone can tap out on _Die Hard_ ,” he muttered, looking through the DVD collection beneath the TV. “Aha! Perfect.”

He put the movie in, then dropped down on the opposite end of the couch from Mac. When the unmistakable theme music started, Mac laughed.

“ _Indiana Jones_? Really?”

“ _Last Crusade_ , man!” Jack grinned. “We can see where they went wrong with the catacombs.”

“Oh, swell,” Mac chuckled. “Just what I need to get over my phobia.”

In fact, that’s exactly what Jack had thought it would be—a way for Mac to put those memories and that fear into a different place in his head. Not the place where he almost died, but simply one more mission they survived. One more place he pulled off the impossible.

As they watched, laughing at the banter between Indy and his father, sobering at the moments of peril, Jack noticed Mac slip lower and lower on the sofa until his head was propped on the arm of the couch, his own arms wrapped around his body, looking all of sixteen.

As the theme music played once more and the heroes rode off into the sunset, Jack tossed a blanket over Mac’s shoulders, the kid snoring softly in his sleep.

“I chose wisely,” he said, chuckling at his own humor.

He reached for the lamp, but paused as he saw Mac frown in his sleep as if somehow sensing the oncoming darkness. It was going to take Mac some time, Jack knew, to get past that fear. But he wasn’t going to push.

He’d just be there to turn on the light.

 

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N** : Thank you so much for reading! I do really enjoy playing in this sandbox. It was interesting to try to write these characters outside of the little 'verse I'd created with my Ambassador Series, so I hope I did okay, and that if you made it here to the end, that you enjoyed. 
> 
> One last quick note: all translations are thanks to Google translate (seriously, where would we be without the interwebs). So, if you speak Italian, French, or German, I hope I was close. And if you don't...well, just pretend you never saw this note _*I was never here*_....


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